


Can We Keep Him?

by Lush_Specimen



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Rescue, Scavengers shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23370544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lush_Specimen/pseuds/Lush_Specimen
Summary: While foraging for supplies in a recently abandoned battlefield, the Scavengers make a shocking discovery: they find a survivor! Misfire pulls a very damaged, very angry Deadlock from the rubble. Still in denial about the loss of his squad, Krok is determined to save the wounded bot, no matter how much he growls at them.The first several chapters are basically providing the backstory for their happy reunion on the Lost Light, many years later!
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet, The Scavengers & Deadlock
Comments: 208
Kudos: 331





	1. Found a Live One

**Author's Note:**

> Another awesome idea spawned in a discussion in the Infinite Briefcases discord! Special thanks to Space!

“HEY! KROK!” Misfire shouted across the mounds of corpses. “Look what I found!” 

Krok dragged a palm down his face and groaned. 

“LOOK! LOOK!! LOOK!!!” 

“Misfire.” Krok grumbled the name as both an admonition and a curse while he topped off another bottle of energon. They had been scavenging the deserted battlefield for barely an hour and every few minutes Misfire made a new and exciting discovery. So far, he’d _almost_ seen the Necrobot twice, found several Sharkticon fangs, and made an assortment of inappropriate jokes with increasingly macabre props. Krok shuddered to think what he found now. 

This battle had very recently moved off this planet, leaving an abundance of fresh resources for them to gather. Lingering warmth radiated from the broken bodies. He clicked his communicator a few times. Maybe his squad was still nearby. 

“KROOO-OOK!!” 

“I swear to Primus if I turn around and you’re holding yet another severed head, making the jaw work like some kind of twisted puppet...” 

“Ha ha! Yeah!” Spinister chuckled from the other side of the pile. He carefully examined a jagged gear then casually chucked it over his shoulder. It landed some distance away with a sickening crunch. “That was a good one.” 

“Maybe the first time.” Crankcase muttered from somewhere nearby. He had the uncanny ability to inflect an eye roll into his speech. Krok had no idea how he did it, but no one knew misery like Crankcase. “The next three times were an exercise in overkill.” 

“If everyone could focus on gathering enough quality energon to power the ship and any spare parts that we might need, we’ll get done a lot faster! Maybe this time we’ll actually catch up with the fleet.” Krok shook his head. 

They had been chasing the main Decepticon fleet for weeks. Somehow, they always arrived at the latest battlefield after everyone else had left. Krok harbored no doubts about Crankcase’s piloting prowess, but he was starting to wonder about Flywheels’ navigational abilities. 

“It’s not MY fault we’re late!” Flywheels muttered, instantly transforming into his chunky tank alt mode. Krok glared at him. Flywheels’ psychosomatic hyperreflexia, which compels him to change shape every time he lies, confirmed his suspicions. Due to his extreme aversion to conflict, Flywheels was deliberately planning complicated routes in hopes to avoid the battles. Krok thought there should have been a more direct route to this planet then the circuitous course through the asteroid field that Flywheels had plotted. 

Klik. He clicked his communicator again. Sometimes he felt like maybe he should just accept that he’d never find his old squad. He hunched his shoulders, pushed that thought from his mind, and pressed the small green button a few more times. Klik. Klik. Klik. 

“Krok! You haven’t looked yet!” Misfire whined. 

“FINE! I’m coming!” Krok set aside his scavenged bounty and climbed up the ridge to see what Misfire found, hoping he wasn’t walking into a prank. “I’m telling you right now, if it’s another funny colored foot, I’ll kick your aft all the way to the Necrobot and back!” 

“The Necrobot?! Did you see him??? Where?! WHERE?!” Misfire instantly got distracted. Somewhere Flywheels began to loudly recite a Neoprimalist litany. 

Krok was about to remind Misfire to focus when his audials picked up a strange noise. He dialed up the sensitivity on his receivers to decipher the faint static laden sounds. 

“Get your fragging- corpse-picking- paws- off- me!” 

Optics blazing, Krok recognized strained but distinct vocal patterns. A voice! A voice of someone that sounded less than pleased. What had Misfire gotten himself into now? Krok flipped the safety off his sidearm, clicked his communicator and rushed forward. 

Cresting the hill scattered with damaged limbs and slick with spilled energon, Krok jerked to a stop. Misfire had found so much more that a severed head this time. 

“You- you found a survivor?!” Krok gasped. Klik. 

“That’s what I’ve been telling you!” Misfire beamed proudly, clutching a rather disgruntled wounded Decepticon. The poor lugnut growled, his extreme displeasure completely lost on Misfire. He readjusted his grip and dragged the energon-streaked bundle of spare parts a few more steps. “He’s got the right color badge and everything!” 

“Something- wrong- with- your- audials?” The battered bot snarled. Static breaking up his words. “Put- me- the- frag- down!” He squirmed weakly, sparks showering from numerous cracked circuits. 

They so rarely found anyone alive! Krok’s spark spun. He clicked his communicator a few times. Krok raced towards them, snagging a chunk of torn electron fabric off the shattered wing of some type of bat-like alt mode. Misfire’s latest find was beyond rough shape. One crimson optic had gone completely dark. Energon streamed freely from dozens of wounds, especially from the gaping hole once occupied by his left arm. When Krok got closer, he realized both legs were severed at the knee. Primus. How was he still online? 

“Leave- me- alone!” Despite his brutal injuries, he still managed to bare his fangs and struggle weakly against Misfire’s grasp to no avail. Once Misfire got hold of something, he didn’t easily give it up. “D- Don’t- need- help-” 

“Look, Krok!” Misfire grinned, struggling to lug the wounded bot back to their ship all by himself. “I already told him all about us!” 

“You didn’t give him the full introduction speech?!” Krok dragged a palm down his face. The poor soldier had been through the mill. The last thing he needed was Misfire yammering about their entire crew. 

“He’s abandoned and discarded, yet like everything else we collect! Can I keep him? Please!!” Misfire gave Krok his best puppy dog eyes and hugged his find tightly. 

“KEEP ME?! I’LL KILL YOU!!” Rage burned in his one functional optic. He swung at Misfire's face and missed. The extreme extent of his injuries meant he possessed neither the depth perception nor the energy for a proper attack. 

“Take it easy, friend.” Krok wrapped the electron cloth around the bot’s shivering frame. If they didn’t get him help soon, he’d die. “You’ll have to get in line to kill Misfire There’s quite a few bots ahead of you.” 

“Hey!” Misfire’s wings twitched in indignation. 

“FR- FRIEND?!” The bot spat the word like it was poison. Even though his systems were slowly shutting down, he swatted a shaky hand at Krok to ward off his assistance. “Do- you- know- who- I- am?” 

Misfire shrugged while Krok positioned himself on their reluctant rescuee’s other side. The one without the arm. If he and Misfire lifted together, the poor spark wouldn’t have to put any weight on the ragged stumps that remained of his damaged legs. Krok nodded to Misfire and they lifted simultaneously. The bot vented sharply. Krok grimaced at the contrast of his gradually cooling frame and the warm energon oozing from his wounds. 

“I- am- DEADLOCK!” he gritted through clenched fangs. “Of-Decepticon- High- Command. Surely- you-” 

“Sorry.” Krok apologized with a shake of his head. Deadlock seemed honestly shocked that they didn’t recognize him. He must be fairly important. “We’ve been a little out of the loop.” 

“What- are-” A rough hacking cough broke up Deadlock’s question. The violence of the cough racked his frame. He spit up a glob of semi-congealed energon on to Misfire’s foot. 

“Eww! Gross!” Misfire hopped, frantically shaking his foot and dropping Deadlock. The injured bot shuddered, his engine barely maintaining its uneven rhythm. 

“MISFIRE!” Krok braced himself and took the armored bot’s full weight. He refused to drop his injured comrade. His joints squealed. Deadlock was missing the better part of three limbs, how is he still so heavy? 

“Oh! Scrap!” Misfire grabbed Deadlock again before Krok collapsed under his substantial weight. They eased him back to the ground. 

“Go get Spinister!” Krok ordered, unsure if Spin would hear him if he yelled. One of these days, there really needed to invest in a proper comm link system. 

“Don’t worry, Deadlock!” Misfire cheerily called as he transformed into jet mode and streaked away. “I promised to look after you! You’re going to be alright.” 

Krok knelt in the dirt, drawing Deadlock carefully across his lap. He tucked the torn cloth gingerly around his battered frame. 

“Stop-” Deadlock’s plating bristled at the contact. He tried to push Krok away with his remaining hand. Krok grasped his sluggish fingers and held tightly. 

“Take it easy, soldier.” Krok winced as he surveyed the extent of his wounds. “If your core temperature drops too low, not even Spin is going to be able to save you.” 

“Why? C-care?” Deadlock forced out in stuttering gasps. His spark was flickering. Krok squeezed his hand with the desperate hope that he could keep Deadlock alive by sheer force of will. He couldn’t lose another one. Not like his squad. No! Krok clicked his communicator. His squad had to be out there... 

“Because,” Krok forced a smile into his voice despite Deadlock’s bared fangs. “You’re special, I can tell.” 

Deadlock drew a ragged vent and his circuits locked up. Although he must have had a hell of a day, this was the first time Krok noticed pain on his face. 

“Why would you say that?” Deadlock whispered. The words tumbled out all at once. Soft, composed, and so unlike his growling defensive savagery. His functional optic started to water. 

“You’re a survivor, for one thing.” Krok’s shoulders sagged in relief when the heavy thump of Spin’s rotors vibrated his frame. “I’ve salvaged spare parts from gray frames with a fraction of the injuries that you’ve sustained today.” 

“I’ve come back from worse.” Deadlock mumbled a barely audible response. Fluid spilled out of his optic and ran down his dented cheek. Still clinging to Krok’s hand, he rubbed his face against his broken pauldron. “Great. My last optic is fragging off. Leaking for no reason.” He muttered quietly. Krok didn’t contradict him. If Deadlock wanted to keep his tears a secret, then he would respect his privacy. 

The sound of two whirling transformation cogs heralded the arrival of Spinister and Misfire. 

“See! Spin, look!!” Misfire bounced around Krok and Deadlock. “He’s ALIVE!” 

“Not for long.” Spin put his hands on his hips. 

“Wow! Rude!!” Misfire gasped. He shoved the hulking helicopter. “You can’t just say that!” 

“Why not? It’s the truth.” Spin cocked his head to one side and started counting out Deadlock’s symptoms on his fingers. “He’s missing several limbs, he’s lost nearly all his energon and his spark is on the verge of fade out. You can tell by the pale gold color of the sparks burning on his broken circuits. And another thing-” 

“Thank you, Spinister! For your professional opinion!” Krok cut him off before he got into the gruesome details, protectively pulling Deadlock a little closer. “The question is: What can we do to keep him alive?” 

“Oh! That’s easy. I can fix him, but I need some stuff.” 

"Well. Go get your stuff!” Krok tried to keep the exasperation from his voice. Maybe they could help Deadlock keep his tenacious grip on life after all. Spin nodded, mercifully comprehending Krok’s desire for him to hurry. 

“Misfire, show me where you found him. I can make new limbs, but salvaging parts of his old ones will be easier on his system. Then we need-” Before Spin finished listing his requirements, he whipped out his rifle and shot a nearby corpse several times. 

BANG! BANG! BANG! 

“PRIMUS!” Misfire dove behind half of an eviscerated monstercon. “WHAT THE HELL?!” 

“What??” Spin shrugged, holstering his weapon. He narrowed his optics at the smoldering remains. “It was looking at me funny.” 

“Hurry up.” Krok deadpanned, ignoring the ringing in his own audials from the close proximity gunfire. He was used to Spin’s idiosyncrasies, but time was slipping away from them. Deadlock shivered and his latest growl came out more like a whimper. While Misfire and Spinister gathered supplies, Krok called Crankcase and Flywheels to help him get Deadlock to their ship.


	2. In Good Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Scavengers meet Deadlock's violent outbursts with gruff kindness and boundless cheerfulness, the wounded bot isn't sure how to react.

With Crankcase’s and Flywheels’ help, Krok fashioned a makeshift stretcher out of the electron cloth and they carried Deadlock to their ship without any fatalities. Deadlock snarled at them the entire time, punctuating his displeasure with an occasional swat. He got his claws into Crankcase once. They almost dropped him twice. Although all the thrashing and growling didn’t make rescuing him any easier, Krok was willing to cut him some slack. Anyone would be a little touchy after losing the better part of three limbs. 

Once they got into their onboard medibay, Crankcase produced a freshly collected canister of high quality energon. Muttering a string of creative curses, he proceeded to hook it up to their cobbled-together artificial fueling system. Shrill warning beeps heralded the failure of his first few attempts to activate the machine. After a swift kick to its temperamental powerplant, it finally whirred to life. When he reached for Deadlock’s arm to attach the supplementary fuel line, the wounded bot lashed out and grabbed him by the throat. 

“You gotta be fragging kidding me.” Crankcase huffed, completely unphased by Deadlock’s attack. 

Krok froze. He clicked his communicator rapidly. Flywheels muttered a prayer in Old Cybertronian. 

Deadlock snarled, narrowing his one functional optic and slowly baring his fangs. The intense red light of his glare washed over Crankcase's blue paintwork. Energon leaked from dozens of wounds, dripping off his frame with a soft patter in the taut silence. Although he cut an impressive figure, Deadlock lacked the strength to act on any of his violent threats. He attempted to squeeze his hand around Crankcase’s delicate neck cables, but his joints froze with a shower of sparks. 

“Look.” Crankcase easily pried off Deadlock’s injury-weakened grip. “You want to fragging die? Fine. Bleed to death. I don’t care. That’s YOUR business. But this is MY ship.” Crankcase jabbed a finger at the battered Decepticon badge in the center of Deadlock’s chest. Deadlock’s finials canted back. “No one has ever died on this ship and I don’t intend to ruin our service record. So, if you're onboard, you need to respect that. Stay. Alive.” Crankcase emphasized his last two words by poking Deadlock’s badge. 

“But-” Deadlock’s aggression bled away as he stared at Crankcase. The triggercon grabbed his arm and carefully finished attaching the energon pump. Supplemental fuel began flowing into Deadlock’s depleted lines. He furrowed his brow in confusion. 

“But nothing.” He glowered at him through his cracked visor. “You already leaked energon everywhere. I guess I’m gonna hafta clean that up. If you go and die now, then it will all be for nothing.” 

“Right.” Krok walked over and placed a steadying hand on Deadlock’s shoulder. “We’re just trying to help.” 

“Except for Mumbles over there.” Crankcase grumbled, gesturing over his shoulder to Flywheels. 

“Who? Me?” Flywheels gasped, placing a hand over his spark in offense. “I’m doing more than you are!” He instantly transformed into his tank alt mode. 

“Bah! Is that so?” 

“I was reciting the Akathist to Adaptus, if you must know. It’s an extremely powerful prayer for healing! Especially when recited in the primal vernacular. The Neocybex translation doesn’t do it justice.” 

“You’re praying? For me??” Deadlock’s head jerked back like someone just told him Megatron became an Autobot. 

“Yeah! We hardly ever find anyone alive, and it’d be nice to keep you that way. With both Adaptus and Primus looking out for you, you’re sure to recover.” 

“Can you pray and work?” Krok asked. “We still have lots of supplies to collect and Spin prefers to operate without a big audience.” 

“I guess so.” Flywheels shrugged, shifting back into bot mode. He waved and trotted out the door on his massive feet, cheerfully chanting his prayers. Crankcase sighed, gathered up several empty energon containers and followed him back to the battlefield. Before leaving he turned around and stared pointedly at Deadlock. 

“You better not die, hear me. Not on my ship.” 

Deadlock’s slight nod warmed Krok’s spark. 

“I still don’t understand...” Deadlock whispered, turning his arm to watch the energon flow through the supplementary lines into his body. Although many of his wounds still bled freely, if he didn’t get some fresh energon running through his lines, he’d run dry. 

“Decepticons look after their own.” Krok answered gently. 

“Ha!” Deadlock barked a humorless laugh. “Good one.” 

“I’m serious.” Krok narrowed his optics. He heard that some of the newer commanders ruled their squads with power and fear. The way Deadlock reacted to any show of kindness confirmed those rumors. Krok shook his head. Sadists with authority are damaging the Decepticon movement more than the Autobots ever could. 

“Yeah. Right.” Deadlock huffed. 

“That’s how it was with my old squad. Before... Before I got separated from them. And that’s how things are with my new crew. We look after each other.” Krok clicked his communicator, telling himself that they were still out there. That their last battle with the Wreckers was only a bad dream. 

“Even though everyone wants to shoot Misfire?” Deadlock searched Krok’s face for any hint of jest or insincerity. Krok’s spark broke a little. Deadlock was undoubtedly a model Decepticon. Powerful. Capable. Resilient. Yet, he seemed to have no concept of camaraderie. What were they teaching recruits these days? 

“Exactly. Sometimes you may want to shoot him, but you don’t. Because that’s what it means to be a part of a team, to care about each other.” Krok squeezed his shoulder. Almost on cue, the shrill whine of jet turbine engines shrieked down the hall. Krok pinched the bridge of his nose to keep his trigger finger busy. 

As the jet streaked past the door, Misfire spun his transformation cog and hopped into the medibay. 

“Ta da!” He bowed with a flourish. 

“Misfire,” Krok groaned. “What did we say about using jet mode inside the ship?” 

“That it’s a terrific idea!!” The jet beamed. 

“Technically, yes. Those were my exact words.” Krok sighed. “But I meant, in that it causes TERROR not that it’s something good.” 

“How am I supposed to know what definition you’re using?” Misfire rolled his optics. 

“It’s right in the etymology! TERROR! TERRIBLE! TERRIFIC!!” Krok clicked his communicator. 

“If you’re going to use an archaic meaning of a word, you should be more specific. Besides, I don’t see what the study of bugs has to do with any of this scrap.” 

“Not entomology.” Krok dragged a palm down his face. If he didn’t just tell Deadlock you don’t shoot your teammates, he might strongly consider it right now. 

“Whatever.” Misfire flicked his wings, spun around, and focused all his attention on Deadlock. 

“Hey, Deadlock!” Misfire bounded over to the recharge slab. “Hmm... Name's kinda long. What’s your nickname? Can I call you Dead? Nah, Dead’s not right, especially given your situation. How about Lock? It’s better but too short. Names sound better with two syllables.” 

“I’m right here.” Krok muttered, rolling his optics. 

“How about Deadlock?” The wounded bot snapped. His plating twitched nervously. He shifted uncomfortably at the sudden attention. Deadlock narrowed his optic. He watched Misfire carefully, struggling to parse his intentions. Krok reached for Deadlock’s hand before he took another swing at the exuberant jet and accidently yanked the fuel line from his arm. This time when he grasped his scuffed fingers, he didn’t try to pull away. 

“Nah. You need a nickname.” Misfire grinned. “I’m gonna go with... Pointy! On account of all your sharp edges!” 

Deadlock growled. 

“Yeah. I know. It’s still not quite right, but it’ll work until I think of something better! Anyways, Pointy, I have good news! We found your original limbs! Spin’s bringing them. He’s right behind me. It takes him a little longer to move through the ship. He doesn’t fly through the halls because he’s no fun at all.” Misfire stuck his tongue out at Krok. Krok shook his head and glared at him. 

Krok felt a tentative pressure on his hand. For the first time Deadlock was holding on to him. It was the first time he acted without some display of violence. He couldn’t help but smile behind his mask. There’s was hope for this wounded soldier yet. 

“Check out what else we found!” Misfire emptied his bundle and numerous guns splattered with fresh energon spilled out, clattering to the medibay floor. 

“Primus, Misfire!” Krok shouted, optics flaring. “What are those?! Clean up that mess!” 

“Oops! Sorry!” Misfire shoved a pile of firearms big enough to supply an entire battalion out of the middle of the walkway. He plopped to the floor and began to inspect each one. “Check it out, Pointy! We found these with your limbs. I know some bots get attached to their weapons. I thought some of them might be yours.” 

“Hmm...” Deadlock’s engine rumbled. His optic darted over the massive pile “They all are.” 

“WHAT?!” Misfire froze. “All of these fit in your frame?!” A mischievous grin spread across his face. “Once Spin fixes you up, I want to see where you put them all!! You gotta show me! Promise??” 

Deadlock blinked, completely unprepared for Misfire’s boundless enthusiasm and quirky sense of humor. Then again, is anyone ever truly prepared for Misfire? Krok laughed. Deadlock’s finials canted back. He squeezed Krok’s hand a little tighter, seemingly even more confused than before. At least it was a definite step up from outright hostility. 

“MISFIRE!” Spinister bellowed from the doorway with an armload of supplies, causing the purple jet to jump. Misfire’s jet turbines revved, their high-pitched whine filling the room. For a big bot, Spin moved with absolute silence. He once snuck up on Ravage, which the beastformer denies to this day. He bustled into the medibay and dumped a pile of limbs and assorted spare parts on to the table. “Why are there guns all over my floor? That’s not the place for guns!” 

“They’re mine...” Deadlock offered before anyone else responded. Krok raised a brow. Did their angry patient just try to save Misfire from getting in trouble? 

“All of them?” Spin’s optics flared. 

Deadlock nodded. 

“Nice.” Spin bobbed his head in approval. 

“Spin.” Krok prodded, forcing some urgency into his voice. Deadlock’s fingers felt stiff and cold wrapped in his own warm hand. If they didn’t hurry, they would lose him. He couldn’t to lose anyone else. Not after… He clicked his communicator. Klik. Klik. Klik. 

“Right! Operation time!” The bulky helicopter clapped his hands and rubbed them together. He quickly organized the parts he brought in as well as an assortment of uncomfortable-looking tools. Clanking a particularly jagged pair of forceps, Spin rounded on Krok and Misfire pointing the tool at them. “Everybody OUT!! Except Deadlock. He can stay.” 

Deadlock snarled, hiding behind his familiar ferocious façade. Although he put on a show of unbridled hostility, he scooted a little further back on the recharge slab. He clung tightly to Krok’s hand. 

“Is it alright if I stay?” Krok asked, unwilling to tear his hand away from Deadlock. 

Spin shrugged and continued his prep. Deadlock cast a cautious glance up at Krok. For a slight second his belligerent front cracked. He opened his mouth to say something but swallowed the words, quickly turning away. 

“No fair! What about me?” Misfire whined, still organizing Deadlock’s personal weapon’s stash. “I found him! I wanna stay with Pointy too!” 

“FINE! Everyone can stay. IF you stay out of my way!” Spinister threw his hands in the air. He flicked on a cutting torch and strode up to the operating table. He stopped and stared, transfixed by the torch’s bright flame. The dancing light reflected in his deep crimson optics. He swayed gently in time with the flame’s flickering. 

“Spin?” Krok asked gently. 

“What?!” Spinister snapped back to attention. 

Now Deadlock didn’t even try to hide his trepidation. He squirmed slightly. Every small movement heralded by screeching joints and sparking circuits. Krok found himself muttering one of Flywheels’ prayers. 

“Don’t worry, Pointy!” Misfire grinned, propping his elbows on the edge of the recharge slab. “Spin’s stupid as hell, but you won’t find a better surgeon. Did I mention that in my introductions? I usually do. Anyways, trust me! I can’t think of a safer place to be than in his big ol’ purple hands!” 

“We’re all here for you.” Krok gave his hand a squeeze. “We’ll be right by your side the entire time.” 

Deadlock’s optic darted from Krok to Misfire. Then he gave a shaky nod. Spinister eased him offline and began his extensive repair work.


	3. I Trust You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to establish a bond of trust, Krok talks to Deadlock as he recovers from surgery. They each share a few details about their pasts and probably reveal more than they intended.

A strange sensation of falling snapped Krok online. He shifted and nearly fell out of his chair. He must’ve slipped into recharge waiting for Deadlock to wake up. A cursory glance around the darkened medibay told him that everyone else did too. An exhausted Spinister dozed contentedly on the floor by his feet. Crankcase and Flywheels came in late and commandeered the extra recharge slabs. Krok savored the tranquility of idling engines and softly beeping medical monitors. His universe shrank to this one small room where everyone he cared about was safe and resting peacefully. 

Spin labored for hours fashioning new armor panels, rewiring damaged circuits and refitting Deadlock’s severed limbs. When he finished, Deadlock gleamed like a newly forged spark. Spin completely restored all his dark gunmetal armor and sharp finials. Deadlock’s energon levels slowly increased as supplemental fuel dripped into a set of recently scavenged fuel lines. Slightly disappointed he couldn’t find a crimson optic of the proper size, Spin had to use a blue one to replace Deadlock’s broken optic. The mismatched colors gave him an unsettling appearance, but at least it wouldn’t affect his vision. 

Although Spin repaired all the damage, he couldn’t get Deadlock’s core temperature to stabilize. He sustained too much damage and lost too much energon. If Crankcase hadn’t started him on the supplemental energon drip when he did, Deadlock would not have survived the extensive surgery. In a desperate effort to raise his core temperature, they wrapped him in a salvaged thermal blanket and Misfire curled up around him to supply additional warmth. 

Krok reached out to brush Deadlock’s repaired arm with his fingertips. Although still well below normal, his plating no longer felt frigidly cold. A relieved smile spread underneath his facemask. Deadlock’s self-repair systems were finally working to integrate all his reattached parts. Misfire snuggled himself a little tighter around Deadlock, his jet engine softly purring. 

Careful not to disturb the slumbering helicopter sprawled on the floor, Krok scooted his chair a little closer to Deadlock’s recharge slab. While Misfire could sleep through the end of the world, then wake up and wonder where everyone went, he wasn’t sure about Deadlock. Disorientation often accompanies waking up after such extensive repairs. Krok didn’t want Deadlock to snap online, scared and confused, with an unfamiliar bot cuddling his frame. Now that he had all his limbs, he could easily kill Misfire before his memories caught up to his actions. 

Amidst the dulcet chirps of various medical monitors, Deadlock began to stir. 

“Easy, soldier.” Krok whispered. He laid his hand lightly on Deadlock’s. “It’s okay. You’re among friends.” 

“Friends?” This time Deadlock rolled the word with uncertainty instead of spitting it like poison. After all the repairs, his voice sounded much better. Smooth, resonant, with only a hint of static from disuse. Krok smiled at his progress, both physically and mentally. 

Deadlock blinked his heterochromatic optics. He shook his head, probably trying to sort out his surroundings as his systems recalibrated to accommodate all his new parts. Suddenly his whole frame shuddered and locked up. Krok gasped and leaned down to wake Spin when he realized the cause of Deadlock’s distress was Misfire’s arms wrapped around him. He let the helicopter sleep. 

“Easy.” Krok crooned in a low soothing voice. Deadlock whipped his face towards him, optics wide. “He’s saving your life. Spin couldn’t stabilize your core temperature. We don’t have any fancy frame-warming equipment, so Misfire volunteered to keep you warm until your self-repair systems recover from all the trauma you sustained.” 

“Why?” Deadlock turned to Krok. Instead of sounding angry or confused, he desperately pleaded for an answer. 

“Like a told you before, we look out for each other. You were in a bad way and Misfire wanted to help.” 

“When he first pulled me out of the rubble, I tried to kill him…” Deadlock raised his new hands, flexing his fingers to hide their trembling. “Several times...” 

“Misfire can easily prompt that type of response. He’d never hold it against you.” Krok shrugged. 

“I- I don’t-” Deadlock’s frame shivered. He focused on his shaking hands. 

Krok clicked his communicator. Deadlock reminded him of his old pet robogator. His best friend and namesake. When Krok found him, he was all fangs and unfocused aggression. Slowly, Krok earned his trust. If he wanted Deadlock’s trust, he would have to offer his own trust first. He stared at the communicator clutched tightly in his hand. The only thing he really had was his greatest secret. 

“Deadlock, listen.” Krok began. The medical monitors and life support systems softly beeped their soothing rhythm. “I have something to tell you. You know how I said before that I got separated from my old squad...” 

“Yeah.” Deadlock nodded, grateful for somewhere else to place his focus. He fixed Krok with his multicolor optics. “Misfire mentioned it in his introductions. While I was trying my hardest to punch him in the face with my one remaining arm, he told me all about how you’re still searching for them. He also said he didn’t think you’d ever find them.” 

“He’s right.” Krok sighed. “We- We fought the Wreckers one day. I don’t know how I survived, but no one else did. It was a terrible business. Sometimes I tell myself that they’re still out there. That it was all a bad dream. This communicator is all I have left. I’ve never told anyone else, but I’m pretty sure Misfire figured it out on his own. He’s far more perceptive that he lets on. Spin might know too. It’s hard to tell without asking him very directly and I can’t bring myself to do it.” 

“Why tell me?” Deadlock blinked. 

“Because I trust you.” Krok took one of Deadlock’s shaking hands in his own. To his surprise, Deadlock twisted in his grasp so he could squeeze Krok’s hand in return. 

“I don’t deserve it.” Deadlock muttered, plating pulled tight to himself. He shivered and Krok reckoned it had to do with something other than his dangerously low temperature. “Not now and not then.” 

“Then?” Krok gently pressed. He hoped that his show of trust might have convinced Deadlock to open up as well. Something beyond the area of Spinister’s medical expertise weighed heavily on their recovering patient. 

“Remember when I told you that I’ve survived worse?” 

Krok nodded, not wanting to say anything to interrupt the troubled soldier’s train of thought. 

“I once uploaded circuit speeders directly to my own brain.” 

Primus! Krok blinked. A million thoughts raced through his brain, but he kept his face impassive lest Deadlock think he was judging him. He brought his other hand up to grasp Deadlock’s with both of his own. 

“What can I say?” Deadlock stared into the middle distance, not focusing on anything in the room. “Things were bad, and I could only see one way out. Despite my best efforts, someone saved me. He took me in, repaired all my damage, and looked after me...” 

Deadlock’s new optics watered. Krok waited in supportive silence. 

“The thing you said earlier? That I was special? He told me that too, and so much more. When you said it, everything came flooding back. I think about it all the time. I think about _HIM_ all the time...” 

“What happened to him?” Krok asked cautiously. This person was obviously very important to Deadlock. With the war dragging on for so long, these types of stories often ended tragically, with someone’s funeral. 

“Once I was fully healed, I walked right out of his life.” Deadlock chewed his lip. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “He didn’t need me hanging around, needlessly complicating things.” 

“Don’t you think that’s up to him to decide?” Krok raised a brow. Not the ending he expected. Krok couldn’t help but find hope shining in the uncertainty. “Ever think about looking him up?” 

“He’s alive. That’s enough.” Deadlock mumbled. He rubbed his face with the heel of his palm. 

Krok smiled. Keeping track of his special person? Deadlock wasn’t willing to abandon all hope for himself after all. Misfire vented softly, snuggling himself tighter around his reluctant patient. Deadlock narrowed his optics and stared at him like he was trying to decipher a tome of old Cybertronian. 

“You can touch him. He won’t break.” 

Deadlock canted his finials back. He cast a nervous glance at Krok then returned his gaze to the purple jet lazily curled around his frame. 

“He won’t wake up either, if that’s worrying you.” Krok chuckled. “Misfire sleeps harder than most corpses. That’s probably why he has more energy than everyone who’s ever lived when he’s awake.” 

Deadlock raised a trembling hand and tentatively brushed his fingers across Misfire’s helm which rested on his chest. When the jet didn’t stir, he laid his shaking hand lightly on Misfire’s helm. The jet’s engine purred as he sleepily nuzzled into the touch. Tension eased out of Deadlock’s rigid plating. He settled back into his thermal blanket and turned to Krok with the slightest ghost of a smile. Once he noticed the happiness shining in Krok’s optics, he quickly turned away. 

“If your squad is gone, what are you doing out here? What do you hope to find?” Deadlock changed the subject, his repaired fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along Misfire’s helm. Krok shook his head. If the jet relaxed any further, he might ascend to the Allspark. 

“Found YOU, didn’t we?” Krok smiled. 

Deadlock’s finials perked up. 

“Fact is, I can’t help my squad, but I can help other lost soldiers. How do you think I managed to put this group together? I just started looking. We’ve rescued a few others. Some left as soon as they were healthy. You have the same choice. Once all your repairs finalize, you can return to your squad or...” 

“Pfft! Stay with you?” Deadlock snorted derisively like Krok just offered to sell him the key to Vector Sigma. 

“Ouch.” Krok playfully winced. 

“Sorry.” Deadlock apologized with a cavalier shrug. “Nothing personal, but you can’t save everybody.” 

“Maybe not.” Krok shrugged. “But if everyone had that attitude, none of us would be here right now. Pretty sure the bot that saved you from the circuit speeders wouldn’t think that way.” 

Deadlock recoiled like Krok shot him in the spark. His optics flared, glowing red and blue. He struggled with something that he wasn’t ready to put into words. Krok waited. 

“No. He wouldn’t think that way at all.” Deadlock finally whispered. “Ratch- I mean- That doctor... He’s basically the opposite. He never gives up. On anyone. Ever.” 

“He sounds like an admirable character. One day, I’d like to meet him. If-” 

BOOM!! 

An explosion rocked the entire ship. Red emergency lights flashed, and the alarm klaxons blared. 

Krok toppled off his chair and crashed onto Spinister. The helicopter snapped online and scrambled for his rifle. Without missing a beat, he protectively tucked Krok under one arm and readied his weapon with the other. Spin whipped his rifle up and fired two shots, silencing both sirens mounted in the medibay ceiling. 

“That oughta teach’em!” Spin braced the rifle against his hip and racked the bolt. 

Alarms from other parts of the ship continued their screaming undeterred. He narrowed his optics. 

“What the frag?!” Flywheels jerked awake and fell off his recharge slab. Apparently, he could sleep through the ship’s general alarm, but close-range gunfire was too much. 

“Aw hell. Did the fragging generator blow up again?” Crankcase grumbled, sitting up. He jabbed a finger at Flywheels. “You said you wired correctly this time!” 

“I did! I swear!” Flywheels protested as he transformed into his tank alt mode. 

“If everyone paid as much attention to routine repair work as they do to hacking Autopedia, stuff wouldn’t unexpectedly explode.” Krok pinched the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the impending headache. 

“I have a feeling that wasn’t mechanical failure.” Deadlock’s optics darted around the room. Misfire softly shifted, blissfully slumbering through the calamity. 

The chilling shriek of incoming ordinance cut through their conversation. Krok’s energon ran cold. Deadlock’s intuition was right on point. Someone was firing on them. 

SCREECH!! BOOOM!!! 

“MY SHIP!” Crankcase bellowed, vaulting off the recharge slab. He kicked a panicking Flywheels as he bolted for the door. “GET MOVING!” 

“Okay! Okay! I’m coming!” Flywheels finished chanting a quick litany. 

“Crankcase, WAIT!” Krok shouted. Spin still held him tightly with one arm. “We don’t know what’s going on out there!” 

“Don’t worry! We got this!” Flywheels automatically shifted back into bot mode before running after Crankcase. 

Spinister and Krok exchanged a quick glance before simultaneously scrabbling to follow them. 

“Wait! I’m coming!” Deadlock weakly wriggled, unable to get up with a deeply recharging Misfire still snuggled on to him. Although he had made progress, his self-repair systems still had plenty of work to do. He was in no position to jump right back into battle. Krok doubted that he could stand up on his own yet. 

“AWWW!” Spinister threw back his head and moaned. “I just fixed you! AND I’M GONNA HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN!! Do you have any idea how much work that is?!” 

“Relax, Spin. You did a fantastic repair job.” Krok patted his back, right between his rotors. “Isn’t that right, Deadlock?” 

Deadlock nodded and Spinister practically glowed. 

“And you won’t have to do it again.” Krok glared pointedly at Deadlock, bundled in his thermal blanket with Misfire curled up around him. 

“I can help.” Deadlock mustered a half-convincing growl. He nudged Misfire in vain. 

“Yes. You can.” Krok agreed. “Please keep an eye on Misfire. If he happens to wake up, DO NOT let him join the fight.” 

“Yeah.” Spinister folded his arms. “I do NOT need to be shot by him again. There’s gonna be enough work to do after this fight without him adding to it.” 

“You mean the story he told during his introductions was true?! He got his name from a mishap involving a machine gun and a dozen dead Decepticons??” Deadlock stared at the sleeping jet sprawled across his frame in disbelief. 

“Pfft! That was a total lie.” Spinister rolled his optics. Relief washed over Deadlock’s face until Spin continued. “He killed seventeen people that day.” 

“I’m serious, Deadlock.” Krok met Deadlock’s repaired optics, one deep crimson, the other bright blue. He found the chromatic dichotomy oddly suited him. “Decepticons watch out for each other.” 

Deadlock laid one hand protectively on Misfire’s back between his broad wings and gave Krok a short nod. 

The staccato bark of machine gun fire sounded outside the ship followed by the distinct “CHOOM! CHOOM!!” of Crankcase’s shoulder cannons. 

Dragging Spin along by the arm before he got distracted shooting the rest of the alarm sirens, Krok raced down the hall. Whatever was happening outside, Crankcase and Flywheels needed backup. Krok flipped the safety off his sidearm and clicked his communicator. Klik. Klik. Klik.


	4. Decepticons Look Out For Each Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scavengers trade shots with a group of neutral bounty hunters looking for a big pay day. Then laugh in their faces. No one would ever confuse them for someone important. Ever. Unless...
> 
> Maybe Deadlock wasn't full of scrap when he claimed to be a member of Decepticon high command.

Krok and Spinister ran towards their ship’s open cargo bay doors. Flattening his back against the interior of the doorframe, Krok peered outside. Crankcase crouched near the left side of the door behind some scattered debris, his shoulder cannons locked in the forward firing position. Flywheels’ heavy tank mode lobbed volley after shrieking volley towards the top of the ridge. Occasional machine gun fire rained down from above, pinging off the side of their ship. Krok nodded at Spinister as always right beside him. The hulking helicopter narrowed his optics and racked the bolt on his rifle. 

Venting deeply, Krok considered their options. Someone was attacking them, but they had no idea who. If his old squad had known that the Wreckers were traveling with their intended target, they would have used a very different strategy. Rushing blindly into another fire fight could result in disaster. He needed more information, or he risked losing everything he worked so hard to build. He clicked his communicator. 

Drawing himself up, Krok channeled his best inner Megatron and strode right out the door. 

“CEASE FIRE!!” He bellowed. All gunfire instantly halted. Crankcase and Flywheels stared at him. Spinister loomed behind him like the world’s most dangerous shadow. 

“I DEMAND TO SPEAK TO WHOEVER THE HELL IS CHARGE OF THIS FIASCO!!” Krok shouted, all wrath and indignation. He folded his arms and clicked his communicator rapidly. Klik. Klik. Klik. 

When several bots stood up on top of the ridge above their ship, Krok smiled beneath his faceplate. He learned a few immutable truths during his long military service. One, 95% of command was simply expecting obedience. If you acted like you were in charge, people generally followed. And two, those in command, unless possessing a rare refined character, seldom passed up an opportunity to lord their authority over anyone else they deem inferior. 

“You the commander of this tub?” A sleek bot painted in stunning slashes of black and silver strode forward. 

Crankcase sputtered at the insult to his ship but held his tongue when Krok glared at him. 

“Who’s asking?” Krok narrowed his optics. The black and silver one approached while two heavily armed bots trained their weapons on him. One garish green and the other brilliant orange with tacky decals and sleek silhouettes. They all probably had speedster alt modes which mercifully meant they had light plating. He counted three assailants total. At least they still had the advantage in numbers. 

“Call me Charger.” The bot smirked, slowly strutting down the slope towards him. “You’ve already met my associates: Supra and Eclipse.” He gestured to the armed bots holding their positions on top of the ridge. 

“The name’s Krok.” Krok glared at him. None of them wore badges of either color. Great. A group of factionless fighters. Depending on their motives, this situation could go either way. 

“Well met, Krok.” Charger smiled as smooth as oil as he continued to advance. Out of the corner of his optics Krok noticed the speedsters silently shifting their positions. Things were quickly headed south. He clicked his communicator. He wished his squad was here right now. 

“Hold it right there.” Krok raised his sidearm, locking his sights on the sleek bot’s spark. “The battle here is over. We have no quarrel with each other. You have no right to fire upon my ship.” 

Cranckcase snorted at the words “my ship.” Krok fought the urge to roll his optics. Couldn’t he play along for like two seconds? 

“No right?!” Charger scoffed. “We have every right! I believe that you have something of ours.” 

Something of theirs? Krok wracked his brain trying to remember any unusual parts they might have scavenged. Crankcase generally stuck to the things on their list while Spin specialized in useable spare body parts, notwithstanding his hoard of unique gears. Flywheels had a habit of collecting fallen soldiers’ wallets, but a few stolen shanix weren’t worth an armed assault. Misfire probably pocketed the Matrix or something because it was shiny. 

The garishly painted speedsters inched closer. If he could distract them a little longer, they’d be within range of both Spinister’s and Crankcase’s weapons. To get out of this situation with minimal casualties, they’ll have to drop all three as quickly as possible. Although neutrals generally traveled in small groups, he couldn’t risk any of them calling for reinforcements. 

“Unlikely.” Krok kept his tone disinterested. “But if you let me know what you’re searching for, perhaps a mutually beneficial transaction could be arranged.” 

“Hmm... Interesting. Alright. Ammunition is expense. If I don’t have to waste it shooting you to pieces, then that leaves us with a higher profit margin for this endeavor.” Charger grinned. “Did you know that the Autobots have started offering bounties on significant Decepticon warriors?” 

“Pfft! Buddy, have you ever come to the wrong ship!” Crankcase snorted which as close as he ever came to an outright guffaw. Flywheels burst into laughter. 

Charger narrowed his golden optics while his partners continued to adjust their positions. 

“I have to agree with my colleagues.” Krok chuckled. “I can’t imagine anyone has ever posted a bounty on any of us. We are but humble scavengers, trying to make use of what gets let behind.” 

“Perhaps.” Charger nonchalantly took another step closer, totally unconcerned with Krok’s weapon trained on him. “Or perhaps amongst the other garbage you’ve collected you’ve managed to find a high-ranking member of Decepticon High Command. The most notorious assassin ever to stalk the face of Cybertron.” 

“We’re not on Cybertron.” Spinister piped up. Krok startled. Spin loomed like a murderous shadow, quietly unnoticed until he shot you in the face. 

“Spin’s got a point.” Krok nodded, hoping the bounty hunters didn’t notice him jump. He needed to wrap this up before Spin decided that a rock was looking at him funny and the crackling tension exploded into a full-blown firefight. 

“Do you think this is a game?” Charger growled. 

“No. Games are fun. This is tedious.” Spinister answered very matter-of-factly. 

Apparently upset at being found tedious instead of threatening, the sleek bot’s plating flared. Flywheels snickered. 

“Idiots.” Charger grumbled, done with maintaining his suave facade. “Just hand over Deadlock and we’ll be on our way. We’ve been trailing his spark signature for a while now. It flickered a bit ago and I worried that he died, which would have been a real shame. The bounty’s only good if we can bring him in alive.” 

“Sounds like a pain. Why would the Autobots want him alive when dead is so much easier? Corpses don’t cause half as much trouble.” Spin cocked his head to one side. 

Krok vented a sigh of relief that Spin focused on the “alive” part of Charger’s tirade and not the “Deadlock” part. Charger had some very interesting ideas about Deadlock’s identity. He had to be mistaken. There was no way the lost and wounded soldier that Misfire dubbed Pointy was a member of High Command. Regardless, there’s no way they were gonna give him up. Decepticons look after their own. 

“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just want paid.” Charger shrugged. “I heard their Chief Medical Officer added that provision, but I can’t imagine why.” 

“Well. You are NOT stepping one foot aboard MY ship. Not after scorching the paint for no reason. And that’s final.” Crankcase folded his arms. 

In a burst of hopeful optimism, Krok liked to think Crankcase's bluster was a thinly veiled attempt at protecting Deadlock. Unfortunately, his pragmatic side knew better. Crankcase couldn’t let it go. He had to let _everyone_ know that it was _his_ ship. 

“That’s what I thought you might say.” Charger growled. “But we’re close to a truly lucrative payday. I’m not about to be stopped by a group of lousy scavengers.” 

“It’s pronounced SCAVENGERS!” A familiar voice shouted behind Krok. His energon turned to ice in his lines. 

“MISFIRE!!” Krok lowered his weapon and whirled around. In the split second Krok diverted his attention, the bounty hunter pounced. 

“Who pronounces it that way?” Charger snarled as he crashed into Krok. 

He swept Krok’s feet out from under him and knocked his gun away. Charger wrenched Krok’s arm behind his back, spinning him as he fell. Krok needed to drop his communicator to fight back, but he couldn’t. It was all he had left. He clutched it tightly and landed hard, face first, on the ground. He clicked his communicator as Charger pinned him down, digging his knee into the center of his back. 

“Frag me.” Krok muttered in resignation as the uncomfortable pressure of a gun’s muzzle pressed against the back of his helm. 

“KROK!” Spin screamed, drawing his rifle. 

“Easy now.” Charger armed his weapon. Spinister froze but his deep crimson optics burned with rage. 

Krok winced. This whole nonsense went from bad to worse in a hurry. He dreaded looking back towards the ship. Raising his optics, he shuddered. Sure enough, Misfire stood triumphantly in front of the cargo bay doors. So much for Deadlock keeping an eye on him. His wings flared low and his arms looked funny. Krok could have sworn Misfire’s hands were purple, not white and gray. Worst of all, he wielded dual pistols, one in each hand. They were all going to die. 

“The way I see it, you now have two choices.” Charger nodded to his two partners and they armed their own weapons. He twisted Krok’s arm tighter and his joints screeched. The gun's muzzle uncomfortably scraped Krok’s helm. “ONE. You can all step aside and let us search your ship and the surrounding area for our bounty. Or. TWO. We simply shoot you all, starting with your beloved commander, Krok here, and search the ship anyway. I’d really hate to waste the ammo, but it’s up to you. Choose wisely.” 

Spinister gripped his weapon so hard his joints shook. As the rifle stock deformed in his shaking hands, the unsettling whine of rending metal whispered on the edge of Krok’s audials. He braced himself for the inevitable bullet storm. 

“Too bad I’ve always been bad with multiple choice tests.” Misfire smirked. 

Without warning, Misfire’s incongruously colored arms whipped up with incredible speed. He flung them wide and fired two shots, simultaneously killing both garishly painted speedsters. Krok stared in shock as their sparks ruptured in stereo. Watching his partners' inglorious demise, Charger's optics flared. 

In the bounty hunter’s momentary lapse in focus, Spinister roared into action. He swung his rifle up, striking Charger across the jaw with the stock. Krok flattened himself low in the dirt and covered his head with his hands. As the bounty hunter flew backwards, Spin continued with his forward momentum to flip his rifle until the butt stock nestled tightly against his shoulder in one fluid motion. He planted himself protectively over Krok and fired several shots. The pointblank rounds shredded the speedster's light armor with deadly accuracy. Warm energon splashed over Krok as his assailant fell to the ground in pieces. 

Krok dropped his forehead to the ground on relief. Somehow, they all survived the standoff. He clicked his communicator. He only enjoyed a half second of peace before Spinister pounced on him. 

“KROK! Are you okay?!” He scooped him up and held him aloft. His wide optics darted over his frame, checking for injuries. 

“I’m fine, Spin.” Krok wriggled in his iron grasp. “Put me down. Please.” 

“But- But-” Spinister reluctantly released him, but his turbo-rotor engine whined. He nervously tapped his fingertips together. “Even a single broken circuit could cause sparks which create condensation which leads to a rust infection which-” 

“Alright! Alright!” Krok relented. Spin would fret himself to death until he assured himself that Krok was indeed fine. “That jerk did throw me around pretty hard. You better check my shoulder for damage.” Krok plopped down on the ground and obediently held his arm out. 

Spinister’s optics lit up and he gently ran his fingers along Krok’s plating. The helicopter hummed happily as he checked for the minutest possibility of damage. Krok sighed. The things he puts up with for the sake of his crew’s sanity. 

While Krok submitted to Spinister’s impromptu medical exam, Crankcase and Flywheels made their way back to the ship. 

“MISFIRE! WHAT! THE! HELL?!” Crankcase waved his arms. “Where the frag did THAT come from?!” 

"Primus must have guided the bullets because you sure as hell can’t shoot that good.” Flywheels clasped his hands above his spark and raised his optics to the sky. “My prayers have been answered!” 

“They totally were!” Misfire grinned smugly. “But not the ones for my marksmanship. BEHOLD!” He hiked up his wings and pirouetted, revealing Deadlock crouched behind him. Their reluctant patient held a gun in each hand and shivered beneath the thermal blanket draped around his shoulders. He holstered his weapons and met Krok’s optics with a sheepish grin. 

“DEADLOCK?!” Crankcase and Flywheels shouted at once. Spinister was too concerned with Krok to even notice. 

Krok smiled as Spinister continued his exam. He spotted the incongruous paintwork but didn’t put the pieces together until now. Misfire must have kept his own arms behind his back to support their recently repaired comrade while Deadlock wielded a few of his recovered pistols. That was some impressive shooting, truly worthy of a feared assassin. Maybe Charger did have his details correct after all. 

“No. Not Deadlock.” Misfire scoffed. He whirled around, gently drawing Deadlock’s arm across his shoulders and placing his own arm around the shivering bot’s waist. Deadlock’s plating tensed at first, but gradually he relaxed and accepted his support, allowing Misfire to take his weight. “Maybe you all missed my latest introductions, but his name is Pointy.” 

To Krok’s infinite surprise and delight, Deadlock laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. The bounty hunters are named for the cars in the very first Fast and Furious movie. No one can stop me!


	5. See You Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scavengers' impromptu victory celebration is interrupted when the war comes calling in the form of a few soldiers searching for their lost commander. 
> 
> Also the Scavengers are actual raccoons sharing the worst tasting stuff with each other and Krok has a lot of feelings.

By the time Spinister finished convincing himself that Krok did not sustain any hidden mortal wounds during their brief encounter with the bounty hunters, the rest of the Scavengers had grown tired of waiting. They sprawled out in a semi-circle on the lowered cargo bay door, chatting about assorted random topics that Misfire brought up in rapid-fire succession. 

“So, then I told him, you’re out of Optimus Time!” Misfire doubled over in laughter. He leaned against Deadlock who still had the thermal blanket draped around his shoulders. His plating twitched. “Get it?? It’s like a pun or something.” 

“Shut up, Misfire.” Flywheels huffed. “You never even seen Optimus Prime, let alone traded quips with him mid-battle.” 

“How do you know?!” Misfire pouted, wings drooping. “That was a completely plausible story.” 

Krok strode directly to their little powwow and glared at Misfire and Deadlock. 

Following Krok’s lead, Spinister narrowed his optics, folded his arms, and whispered. “What am I reacting to and is anger appropriate?” 

“We’re reacting to two idiots who left the medibay when they weren’t supposed to, so yes, anger is very appropriate.” Krok muttered. 

Vindicated, Spin glowered even harder. 

“Whatever.” The purple jet flicked his wings. “We saved your life. You’re welcome!” 

“Besides, it was my idea.” Deadlock offered, returning Krok’s glare. 

Krok raised a brow. That marked the second time that Deadlock freely offered to get Misfire off the hook. Krok wasn’t sure if Deadlock had a protective streak or just wanted to start a fight. 

“But the one liner about the multiple-choice tests was all me!” Misfire proclaimed, proudly gesturing towards himself with both thumbs. Krok dragged his palm down his face. 

Deadlock stiffened, heterochromatic optics darting between Misfire and Krok. 

“Well in that case, everything is totally fine.” Krok droned sarcastically. “We had things under control until you two showed up, but no one that I cared about died. So... Thanks, I guess.” He flopped down with the rest of them and Spinister instantly followed suite. 

“I’ll take it!” Misfire whooped. He hugged Deadlock tightly. “We make a great team, Pointy!” 

Deadlock shifted slightly, canting his finials back. Although clearly uncomfortable, Deadlock seemed reluctant to tell the over-affectionate jet to shove off. Krok reached over to grab Misfire by the scruff and remind him to ask permission before hugging someone. Sometimes his enthusiasm overrode his manners. Before Krok could give him another lecture on the proper etiquette of consent, Crankcase interrupted to distract the jet instead. 

“Hey, Misfire.” Crankcase shaded his visor with one hand and stared out towards the ridge currently occupied by some recently deceased bounty hunters. “You know… A couple of bots just died. I think I saw some movement over there.” 

“Oh-my-gosh-you're-totally-right-I-see-it-too-it's-the-Necrobot!!” Misfire blurted out all at once and instantly dropped Deadlock. Whipping around to follow Crankcase’s line of sight, Misfire gasped. He transformed into jet mode right in their midst and blasted off at top speed, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mystical grim reaper. 

“Dammit, Misfire!” Krok coughed. Spinister gently dusted him off after the jet’s afterburners kicked up a whirling cloud of dirt. Knowing seeing him in danger greatly disturbed Spinister, Krok resigned himself to having an extra cautious helicopter hovering around him for a few days. 

“What was that all about?” Deadlock shook his head to clear his audials. Tension eased out of his plating with the absence of Misfire’s constant attention. 

“You looked like you could use some space.” Crankcase shrugged. “I know Misfire can be a bit much if you aren’t used to him. The more you’re around him, the more he grows on you. Kinda like a bad rust infection. You got a few seconds of peace while he’s running around on another futile Necrobot-chase.” 

Deadlock blinked in shock. Krok smiled. Crankcase could pretend not to care about their newest find all he wanted, but he’s looking after Deadlock just as much as the rest of them. Possibly even more. 

“That was mean!” Flywheels shoved Crankcase. 

“Aw, come on!” Crankcase huffed. “He’ll be back in no time telling us about how he almost saw the Necrobot but lost track of him. He does it all the time.” 

“But he’ll never see him no matter how much he looks because the Necrobot doesn’t have a physical form. He’s a spiritual manifestation of Primus that only appears to recently deceased sparks to guide them to the Allspark.” 

“A spiritual manifestation?” Deadlock leaned forward, finials perked up. “What does that mean?” 

“Oh no!” Crankcase waved his arms. “I didn’t get rid of Misfire to open up a religious debate! I am far too sober to discuss theology. If Primus does exist, the least he could do is get me a drink!” 

“Primus is generous and gracious to all his children. Simply ask and you shall receive.” Flywheels grinned and produced an ornate shining bottle. 

“Holy bolts! Is that what I think it is?!” Krok’s optics flared. He’d only ever seem such a bottle in the history vids. 

“If you think it’s an ancient bottle of triple filtered engex distilled for Nova Prime before the departure of Ark-1, then yes, you are correct.” 

“Where did you get something like that??” 

“Same place we get all our stuff: off an exceedingly generous corpse!” 

“Flywheels, I could kiss you right now!” Crankcase snatched the bottle and wrenched the stopper out with his teeth. 

“Aww, Crankcase! I didn’t know you cared!” Flywheels smirked and blew him a kiss. 

“Shut up!” Crankcase shoved the giggling tank, a slight pink glow coloring his bronze cheeks. 

“It’s millions of years old and probably worth a fortune.” Deadlock gasped. “You- You’re just gonna drink it?!” 

“Hell yeah we are!!” Flywheels laughed while Crankcase took the first gulp. “It’s a special occasion! You’re looking better, the bounty hunters are dead and we’re not. All in all, a good day!” 

“Frag me!” The triggercon shivered and drew the back of his hand across his lips. “It’s beyond terrible! Seriously, that is the single worst thing I’ve ever put in my mouth!” 

“That’s gotta be a pretty high bar to clear.” Deadlock smirked. “You just said everything you have comes from literal garbage.” 

“Touché.” Crankcase grumbled as he handed the bottle to an eager Flywheels. The tank took an enthusiastic swig. 

“Oh my god.” Flywheels choked. A violent shudder ran through his frame. “That is the worst thing EVER! It’s like chugging pure rocket fuel. If said fuel was spilled on the launch pad, ran over by a waste disposal unit, scraped up into the trash can and forgotten about for a millennia. Here! You hafta try it!” 

“If it’s so bad, why should I?” Deadlock skeptically glared at the proffered bottle out of the side of this multi-colored optics. 

“Because that’s what friends do. When you try something truly awful, you share it. Then we can all complain about it together.” Krok answered matter of factly. He grabbed the bottle and took an obligatory swallow through his curly straw. The ancient booze burned the entire way through his intake to roil in his half-empty fuel tank. His companions were right. It was stupendously, fantastically bad. Unable to form words befitting the magnificent horror, he coughed uncontrollably and handed the bottle to Deadlock. 

“Yeah! Misery loves company!” Flywheels laughed. 

A slight smile tugged at Deadlock’s lips as he threw back the bottle and chugged a gulp of the ancient engex. A shiver raced across his shining new armor. “It’s not that bad.” He wheezed. 

Flywheels laughed even harder. 

“Missed the Necrobot. I’ll get him next time though. For sure. What’s not that bad?” Misfire asked as he shrieked back into their midst in jet mode, kicking up another cloud of debris. His screaming engines deafeningly loud in the close quarters. He transformed and plopped right back down into his spot next to Deadlock. 

“This ancient booze that Flywheels looted off a corpse.” Deadlock handed Misfire the bottle. 

“Dammit, Misfire. Again. We literally had the conversation about not using jet mode in close quarters only a few hours ago!” Krok shook his head. The subtle hum echoed in his audials. “This time I think you screwed up my circuits. I can’t get the sound of your engines out of my head.” 

Misfire stuck his tongue out at Krok, knocked back a shot of the engex and expressively gagged. He offered the bottle to Spin, but the helicopter waved it away as usual. Spinister had enough trouble comprehending reality completely sober so he rarely drank anything harder than standard energon. They still always offered him a share in whatever they drank so he never felt left out. Misfire smiled and returned the bottle to Crankcase. 

“The engine sound is an echo from Misfire? That’s a relief.” Spin sighed. “I guess my proximity alarm that pinged an incoming ship must be malfunctioning too.” 

“Wait. WHAT?!” Krok hopped to his feet. Clicking his communicator, he threw himself between whatever was approaching and the rest of his team. He already had enough excitement for today. Klik. Klik. Klik. 

“Spin’s right. That baritone rumble isn’t just any engine.” Crankcase stood up and scanned the sky. “I’d recognize that sound anywhere! That’s the classic harmonious purr of the P-38, affectionately known as the Can Opener because it’s deceptively heavy artillery can rip an enemy ship to shreds. The faint engine noise is due to the twin dual turbo-superchargers.” 

“You can tell the ship from the engine sound alone?” Deadlock stared at Crankcase, clearly impressed. 

“I’m a pilot. I know every ship in the fleet. Odd to hear a P-38 way out here. Not many were manufactured and the few that do exist belong to members of Decepticon high command.” 

“They’re probably looking for me.” Deadlock said quietly, chewing his lip. 

“WHAT?!” Crankcase rounded on him. The engines rumbled louder as the ship drew near. “You mean all that scrap Charger was shoveling? About you being a high-ranking member of command and a feared assassin? All that was true?!” 

“Why shouldn’t it be?” Deadlock narrowed his mismatched optics. He shivered less as his self-repair systems stabilized his core temperature. 

“No reason.” Crankcase shrugged, recovering his composure. Krok glared at him, hoping that Crankcase’s deeply ingrained dislike of authority wouldn’t provoke Deadlock. “I think I liked you better when you were only an idiot that got his legs blown off not some bigshot commander.” 

Deadlock’s plating flared and his engine growled when an unexpected hand on his shoulder caused him to jump. 

“There’s no reason he can’t be both.” Spinister appeared at Deadlock’s side with a smile. “It’s like Krok says: People can be more than just one thing. Pointy can be both a commander AND an idiot.” 

Coming from anyone else, such a statement would sting like an insult, but Spin meant no ill will. Krok turned to explain that it was part of Spinister’s unique charm, guileless innocence interspersed with bouts of unexpected violence. 

Misfire snickered. Deadlock canted his finials back and flexed his fingers, obviously unsure how to respond. 

“Damn, Spin. I suppose you’re right.” Crankcase conceded. He tried to hide an expression that almost qualified as a smile. “I guess we all contain multitudes. After all, Misfire can be both a pain in the aft and a pain in the neck at the same time.” 

Misfire snorted and doubled over in laughter. Deadlock shook his head and chuckled. Krok smiled. Primus must’ve gifted this lot with infectious ridiculousness or none of them would have survived for so long. It was hard to stay angry at any of them when they were all so honestly absurd. They’d even won over an extremely dangerous assassin who a short time ago wanted nothing more than to tear them apart with his one remaining arm. 

Sure enough, a few seconds later a P-38 hovered up over the ridge behind their ship. Crankcase whistled in appreciation as the sleek vessel drew near and landed lightly in their midst. When the ship’s main hatch opened and two twitchy soldiers stumbled out, Krok folded his arms and clicked him communicator. Deadlock quickly shrugged off his thermal blanket and leapt up next to Krok. 

“Deadlock! Sir!” The first soldier stammered, snapping into a frightened salute. The second one ducked behind the first. Both of their plating rattled in fear. 

Krok cast a sideways glance at Deadlock. He drew himself up and glared at the newcomers. Despite his impressive display, Deadlock still wasn’t fully healed. He clenched his fists to hide his shivering. 

“We’re sorry, sir! We know no one is supposed to touch your ship. When you couldn’t be found with the rest of the battalion, we stole it to look for you. Turmoil has taken over in your absence and things are… Well… Things are terrible. Official policy doesn’t permit search parties, but you never should have been left behind.” 

Deadlock’s engine rumbled. He narrowed his heterochromatic optics. 

“It was my idea.” The second one hopped in front of the first. “We should have looked more carefully before pulling out of this planet. Everyone thought you were already aboard.” 

“We were wrong, but we couldn’t leave you.” 

Deadlock snarled. The two soldiers flinched. They shut their optics and braced themselves. Krok clicked his communicator. After watching Deadlock blow away two bounty hunters in an instant, he harbored no delusions that he’d be fast enough to stop him from shooting the hapless idiots that came searching for their lost commander. 

Misfire fidgeted. Crankcase muttered something disapproving. Flywheels quietly prayed. Deadlock canted his finials back. 

“Well done.” He grumbled. 

“S- Sir?” One of the cowering soldiers tentatively opened his optics. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself.” Deadlock growled. 

“N- No, Sir!” The second one snapped into a rigid salute. 

“You.” Deadlock pointed at the first bot. “Prepare the ship for departure.” While he scampered off, Deadlock rounded on the second one. “You. Take any emergency supplies that I have stored on the ship and give them to Commander Krok. He offered his resources to aid me and the Decepticon army will see him compensated.” 

“Yes, Sir!” The second one saluted and scurried off into the ship. 

Krok turned to Deadlock and smiled. Deadlock started to smile himself, but quickly turned away. 

“Primus!” Misfire exclaimed as he pounced on Deadlock and hugged onto him again. “That was INTENSE! I thought for sure you were gonna kill those poor lugnuts.” 

“Yesterday I probably would have.” Deadlock muttered. His plating twitched. He struggled with something but didn’t voice his concerns. 

Spinister reached down and gathered up the discarded thermal blanket. He stomped up to Deadlock and laid one large purple hand heavily on his helm. Deadlock startled. 

“Your temperature is still too low.” Spin narrowed his optics. He flung the thermal blanket around Deadlock, snugging it tightly across his shoulders. Deadlock wriggled but Spin persisted. He held the blanket with one hand and jabbed a finger at Deadlock’s nose. “Keep this on until your plating stops shivering. You are overtaxing your self-repair systems.” 

“Alternately,” Misfire snuggled against his side. “You could stay with us and I’ll keep you warm.” 

“I don’t think so.” Deadlock managed a melancholy huff as the jet continued hugging him. “I need to get back. Especially if Turmoil is using my absence to usurp authority.” 

The P-38 engines hummed to life as his soldiers completed their preflight check lists. A few moments later, the second bot appeared at the door, his arms laden with crates. He dutifully marched them over to the Scavengers, struggling under their weight. Placing them on the ground by their cargo bay doors, he snapped a quick salute to Krok and turned to Deadlock. 

“Sir! We’re finishing the final preparations for departure. Sir!” 

“Proceed.” Deadlock nodded to him and he hurried back aboard. He surreptitiously brushed his fingertips along Misfire’s helm. Misfire might not have noticed, but it didn’t escape Krok’s attention. Krok sighed. He was going to miss the angry little fragger. 

Misfire eagerly eyed the sealed crates emblazoned with the royal purple Decepticon badge. He squeezed Deadlock one more time before his curiosity got the best of him and he spun around and pounced on the mystery boxes. Crankcase and Flywheels joined him before he claimed all the best stuff for himself. 

“Take care of yourself.” Krok squeezed Deadlock’s shoulder with his free hand. Spinister loomed behind him. Although Krok knew that most bots they rescued choose to leave, he always hated this part. Goodbyes never got any easier. 

“Right.” Deadlock nodded. “I- Um- Thank you. All of you.” 

“No problem, Pointy!” Misfire yelled, half buried in the open crates, rummaging through the pristine supplies. “Thanks for all the great stuff! KROK! LOOK!! Energon in cubes!! I haven’t seen these in FOREVER!!” 

“Next time we meet, we’ll get real drink.” Crankcase snatched a fresh cube out of Misfire’s greedy hands. He tossed Deadlock the half-finished bottle of disgusting ancient booze. “You’re buying!” 

Deadlock easily snatched the bottle of out midair and laughed. Krok’s spark broke a little. He was coming along so well but now he’s headed right back into the war that warped him into the savage monster they pulled from the wreckage. Krok hoped that at least some of the healing Deadlock began would last. 

The ship’s engines whined as the throttle engaged. Krok walked with Deadlock to the hatch, suddenly reluctant to leave him. His mind replayed images of Deadlock clinging tightly to his hand in the medibay. 

“You know.” Deadlock paused. His finials drooped before he continued quietly, almost speaking more to himself than anyone else. “The medic I told you about… The one who saved me from the circuit speeders... He told me that I could make something of myself. And for the longest time I thought I did...” 

Deadlock watched Crankcase and Misfire scuffle over a shiny violet bauble while Flywheels laughed. Krok dragged his palm down his face. Was it too much to ask that they act dignified for like ten whole seconds? No. They had to tussle like newly forged turbo foxes over a box of treats. 

“Then I met all of you.” Deadlock fixed him with his intense multicolored optics. One deep radiant crimson, the other bright vibrant cerulean. After holding Krok’s gaze for a few moments, he sighed and stared blankly at his own hands, clenching them into fists. “Now I’m not so sure...” 

“All of us are works in progress.” Krok smiled and clicked his communicator. Maybe Deadlock turned a corner after all. 

Deadlock shook his head. He nodded his chin towards the green device clutched in Krok’s left hand. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.” 

“Y- You too.” Krok stammered, slightly taken off-guard by the uncharacteristic display of compassion. His optics watered. Deadlock climbed aboard his ship, turning to flash a fanged grin. 

“POINTY!!” Misfire jumped up, wings bouncing. He waved like everything else he does, with reckless abandon. “See you around!!” 

Deadlock gave one last wave and closed the hatch behind him. 

Krok wiped the tears from his face as the P-38 rose gracefully into the sky. He watched until the ship disappeared over the horizon. Suddenly feeling very tired, Krok’s plating sagged. A heavy warm pressure around his shoulder made him jump. In his customary silence, he had forgotten Spin again. 

“Pointy is gone.” Spin stated, staring into the empty sky. He hugged Krok to his side with one arm. 

Krok knew that Spin simply meant that they couldn’t see the ship anymore, but those words cut straight to his spark. Gone. For all of Crankcase’s companionable bluster about drinks owed and Misfire’s jovial promises of happy reunions, Krok knew that they’d never meet again. The universe was too big. The war was too brutal. What could a handful of Cybertronians struggling for survival hope to accomplish against such overwhelming odds? 

No... They would never see each other again. Just once he wished for something other than another goodbye. 

“Yeah, Spin.” He choked, leaning against the solid presence of the massive helicopter at his side. “Pointy is gone.”


	6. Many Years and One Universe Later...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After many misadventures, the Scavengers find themselves aboard the Lost Light, reveling in the official "Welcome to the New Universe" party. Krok notices something strangely familiar about a stunning red and white speedster. He doesn't recall ever meeting someone so regal in the past, but he can't shake the feeling that they know him from somewhere...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we make the jump from pre-canon all the way to post-canon!

“I know. I know. No one wants to hear a speech right now.” The flashy red speedster beamed from his perch up on the bar, golden spoiler shining in the multicolored lighting. His name was Rodimus, if Krok recalled correctly. Swerve, the chatty little bartender, and Misfire had become fast friends and rapidly ran through mutual introductions of their respective crews. Unfortunately, the Lost Light had many more names to remember as opposed to their small group. As unfamiliar faces smiled his way, Krok’s mind boggled to recall them all. 

Krok took a moment to survey the room packed with his jubilant new crew members. He still couldn’t believe he agreed to follow this ragtag group into a new universe. However, they worked well together and Megatron believed in them. It’s not like he had anything better lined up. 

Only half listening to Rodimus, he reflected on the strange series of events that brought them to this moment. They had so many misadventures, run-ins, and near catastrophes it was a wonder they had survived at all. Although they lost poor Flywheels, Primus rest his spark, in a scuffle with the DJD, they collected Fulcrum and Grimlock at that same time. Nickel reluctantly joined after they accidently dragged her through a portal. Keeping true to the Scavengers' irresistible ridiculousness, they now counted the last surviving member of the DJD among their ranks. 

Cupping his drink with both hands, Krok sighed. It still felt strange not constantly clutching poor Radar’s finger. Sometimes his thumb twitched, making the familiar motion of clicking the small button. He had lost so much, but the resounding cheering reminded him of how much he gained. 

“Unless you want Drift to whip something up for me? I’m sure he wouldn’t mind!” Rodimus gestured to a stunning red and white speedster leaning on the bar. The bot laughed and waved him off while the rest of the room groaned. 

Krok stared. Although he had never met the regal white speedster before, there was something startlingly familiar about him. The way his finials canted back, his quiet confidence. His optics sparkled bright vibrant cerulean, hinting at barely concealed strength. Rodimus called him Drift. Krok racked his brain to recall any details about that specific bot from Swerve’s overwhelming summary of the Lost Light’s crew members but drew a blank. 

Leaning over to mention him to Misfire, Krok found the jet already transfixed by the mysterious Autobot. Rolling his optics, Krok shook his head. What was it with his team and their fascination with Autobots? Misfire and Grimlock were practically inseparable, Spinister was shyly chatting with Fort Max about which rescued beastformer had the cutest alt mode, and Nickel was shamelessly flirting with Roller. 

Krok gave up trying to place Drift and continued listening to Rodimus’ speech. He made a mental note to ask Misfire about him later. 

“As you’re all aware, our quantum magic trick totally worked!!” 

A red microscope coughed. Brainstorm giggled. 

“Our navicomp has no idea where we are-” 

“That’s not unusual!” Someone heckled from the crowd. Laughter erupted around the room. 

“True. True.” Rodimus nodded sagely and then flashed a winning grin. “How about this: neither Nautica, Percy, nor Brainstorm can get a fix on our current position, which means we have a completely new universe to explore in total freedom!” 

Cheers roared from the gathered crowd. Even Megatron happily raised a glass from the booth he shared with Minimus Ambus. Finding out that the diminutive green and white bot sternly surveying the rowdy gathering was the source of Ultra Magnus’ strength had been a shock to say the least. 

“We picked up quite a few new members.” Rodimus snatched a drink from Drift. “I hope this party gives everyone a chance to mingle, to celebrate, and enjoy each other’s company. Without further ado, I declare the ‘Welcome to a New Universe’ party officially open! Til all are one!” He knocked back the effervescent purple shot and leapt off the bar into the massive arms of a multicolored transport vehicle. Much to Rodimus’ delight, the big bot blushed brightly and toppled over. Krok recognized Thunderclash from the gaudy winged autobrand on his chest. He thought the fabled Autobot hero died ages ago. The Lost Light is full of surprises. 

“KROK!!” As soon as the not-speech ended Misfire glommed onto his arm. “That bot over there! The super-hot white one with the red face thingies!!” Misfire drew his fingers down his face to mimic Drift’s spectralist facial markings. 

“What about him?” Krok struggled in vain to extricate himself from Misfire’s iron grip. 

“There’s something strangely familiar...” Misfire narrowed his optics and tapped his chin. He stared a Drift for another few seconds before shouting, “SCAVENGERS ASSEMBLE!! NON-EMERGENCY HUDDLE!!” 

The rest of their group dutifully heeded the call and congregated around Misfire. Spin happily skipped over, leaving Fort Max with a soft pink blush on his pale cheeks. Crankcase looked extremely put out by the whole affair, but at least he pretended to pay attention as he continued texting Cons4eva. Always prepared, Fulcrum brought a loaded tray of colorful drinks. Grimlock loomed over the rest of them in dino mode. It warmed Krok’s spark to see Nickel rolling over to join them as well. 

“Does this involve me?” she asked, pointblank. “Because I’m kinda in the middle of something.” 

“What?” Fulcrum scoffed. “Flirting with the giant transport over there? What qualities does he have going for him other than big and stupid?” 

“Which is exactly how I like’em!” Nickel flashed a wicked grin and wagged her brow. “And his name is Roller.” 

“Oh my god.” Crankcase muttered, typing away. 

“Can it, mister dire wraith!” Nickel snapped. 

Crankcase sputtered. Fulcrum laughed. 

“Hmm...” Misfire drummed his fingertips on the table. He sipped the fizzy drink Fulcrum offered him, staring at the mysterious Autobot all the while. “I know I’ve seen him before.” 

“Well, I don’t know him.” Nickel knocked back her proffered drink in one gulp. Crankcase nodded in approval. “If you’ll excuse me, I have people to do.” 

“Don’t you mean-” Fulcrum started. 

“I meant what I said!” Nickel winked and rolled off. Crankcase snorted. Krok shook his head. Nickel fit right into his band of loveable degenerates. 

“Okay. Nickel doesn’t know anything. How about anybody else?” Misfire continued undeterred. 

“I’ve read the entirety of Autopedia and sat through Swerve’s introductions.” Fulcrum bragged. He rubbed his hands together. “Who are we talking about?” 

“That Autobot over there.” Misfire gestured over his shoulder. “The one that’s all red and white and _rawr_!” 

“Oh! I see!” Fulcrum peered around Misfire’s wings. “ _Rawr_ doesn’t do him justice! Look at those arms! So big and strong! He could carry me off the battlefield any day!” Fulcrum fanned himself. 

“Wait a minute... Who are you talking about?” 

“The red and white bot over there. He has a medic’s cross on his super buff shoulder. I’m pretty sure that’s Ratchet, the Autobots’ Chief Medical Officer.” 

“Pfft! Not him! The one next to him, with all the swords and sharp edges.” 

Krok’s spark stopped in his chest. Sharp is merely another word for pointy. And he’s talking to a medic. Not just any medic, the Autobots' Chief Medical Officer. Who just happened to insist that the bounty hunters capture Deadlock alive. Impossible. After all these years, he didn’t dare allow himself the luxury of hope. 

“HIM?! Do you know who that is?!” Fulcrum hissed, ducking behind Grimlock. The dinobot chuckled. 

“No, Pinhead.” Misfire flicked his wings and rolled his optics. “If I knew who it was, I wouldn’t have invoked the Non-Emergency Huddle. Obviously.” 

“Well. I do!!” Fulcrum whispered. “His name is Drift and he’s super dangerous!” 

“Aren’t we all?” Crankcase muttered. “How we survived being around Misfire so long is one of the universe’s great mysteries and Spin will shoot anything if it looks at him funny.” 

Spinister hummed in approval then suspiciously eyed a bubbling green drink in the center of their table. His trigger finger twitched. Krok snatched the offending beverage and quickly chugged the sweet concoction before Spin whipped out his rifle. 

“Yeah, but Drift carries like fourteen swords.” 

“Cool!” Misfire’s crimson optics flared. 

Krok narrowed his optics and stared at Drift, recalling someone else who carried an excessive number of weapons. 

“No. Not cool.” Fulcrum sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look. I know that you missed out on a lot while scavenging deserted battlefields, but you must have been totally out of the loop to not recognize DRIFT!!” 

Misfire opened his mouth again, but Krok silenced him with a glare. A tenuous hope began building inside of him. Could it be? Really?? He didn’t dare give any of the others false hope, but the mounting evidence was too strange to be a coincidence. 

“Fulcrum, please.” Krok did his best to quash his impatience. “Just tell us about Drift and why we should know him.” 

“Fine.” Fulcrum crouched low, conspiratorially leaning across the table. The rest of the Scavengers followed suit, tightening their non-emergency huddle. “Just keep it down. I don’t want to attract his attention and get sliced into tiny pieces. I’m a big fan of staying alive.” 

Krok nodded. He cast one more glance across the crowded room at Drift. The speedster leaned back against the bar, utterly at ease in his surroundings. His polished armor glistened under the multi-colored lights. The medic muttered something unintelligible and Drift laughed, bright blue optics sparkling. His bright laughter sounded very similar to one that Krok recalled from ages ago. And if he imagined one optic was bright crimson, he could almost see the similarities. He was so fixed on studying Drift that he missed the first part of Fulcrum’s story. 

“Why were you in prison?” Misfire asked, scrunching his face in confusion. 

“You know why!” Fulcrum huffed. “I told the whole story when we first met!” 

“Huh? I don’t remember. Maybe I wasn’t listening.” 

“Ugh!” Fulcrum dragged a palm down his face. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, Drift was a favorite topic of prison gossip. At that time, he was the highest-ranking member of Decepticon command to defect to the Autobots. A lot of us were in prison for incidental infractions or stuff we didn’t even do, and he just frags off and switches sides. He said the Decepticons lost their way.” 

“Humph.” Crankcase looked up from his datapad. “He wasn’t wrong.” 

“You don’t have to tell me.” Fulcrum rolled his golden optics. “I had my alt-mode converted into a bomb as punishment by the faction I freely joined, which was pretty intense firsthand experience that something’s gone awry.” 

Krok nodded. Somewhere along the way the Decepticon movement went from standing up for yourself to tearing down everyone else. Nevertheless, all the Scavengers still wore their purple badges proudly because as Crankcase so eloquently put it before their battle with the DJD: that symbol belonged to them not to all the sadists and thugs that came after. 

“As I endured pointless tortures every day, I started to think... Maybe Drift was right. The only difference between him and the rest of us was that he had the bearings to do something about it. Drift saw what things had become, called out Megatron to his face, and left. Changed his name, his frame, and never looked back. At least that’s how the story I heard went. Rumor has it that Megatron added his name to the List personally.” 

Misfire locked optics with Krok, a grin growing across his face. Krok couldn’t help but smile too. Misfire had probably jumped to the same conclusion as soon as he laid optics on Drift. 

“When he fought for the Decepticons, he was known as the most brutal assassin ever to stalk the face of Cybertron, mowing down Autobots with ferocious ease. Although Drift exchanged his famous guns for blades when he defected, he fought against his old faction with twice the lethal fervor. With his new swords, he racked up an impressive confirmed kill count in an extremely short time.” 

“What was his name?” Misfire leaned close to Fulcrum. “When he was a Decepticon?” 

“Shhh!! Keep it down!” Fulcrum’s golden optics darted nervously around the room. “He doesn’t permit anyone to speak his old name. I don’t want to become another notch on one of Drift’s swords!” 

“Just tell us already.” Misfire huffed. 

The party roared along in full swing. Bots laughed, danced, and sang drunken songs. Despite Fulcrum’s trepidation, no one paid any mind to their little powwow. Krok leaned in closer. Once someone changed their name, speaking the old one could be hurtful at best and downright offensive at worst. A subject best approached with a great deal of tact, which unfortunately, they severely lacked. 

“His- His name- His name was-” Fulcrum cautiously whispered, each word quieter than the last. 

“What?! What was his name?!” Misfire grabbed Fulcrum by his armored collar flares and jostled him. “You are killing me!!” 

Fulcrum vented deeply and whispered to Misfire as quietly as possible. “It was Deadlock.” 

Spinister folded his arms and leaned back in his seat. “I could have told you that.” 

The rest of the Scavengers stared at him. 

“W- What? How?!” Krok stammered. His brain still processing this fantastic revelation. Somehow, against impossible odds, Pointy had survived. To push things even further into the realm of absurdity, they had all wound up on the same interdimensional road trip. 

“Because I rebuilt most of his frame from scratch. Once you’re up to your elbows inside someone’s chassis, you don’t tend to forget them.” 

“B- Bu- But- Why didn’t you say something before??” 

“No one asked me.” Spin shrugged. 

Crankcase snickered. Krok drew a palm down his face. After all these years, he really should be better at handling Spin’s exceedingly direct manner of communication. 

“That settles it!” Misfire’s wings hitched up. “There’s only one thing left to do!” He turned towards Drift, placed his hands on either side of his mouth and shouted across the room filled with gleeful celebration. “HEY! POINTY!!” 

Krok whacked Misfire on the back of his helm, but that only set the jet to giggling. With all the noise, music, and general jubilant buzz of hundreds of partiers, Krok was sure Drift wouldn’t be able to pick out one voice shouting an old nickname. 

However, as soon as Misfire hollered at him, Drift jolted like the ghostly fingers of the past trailed down his plating. He waved off Ratchet and took a few steps in their direction. Narrowing his stunning blue optics, Drift scanned the crowd. After a few seconds, he locked on to their little group. His jaw dropped and his finials canted back. Krok smiled. Despite the differences in his paintwork, the motion was so adorably familiar. How did he not recognize him right away? 

Krok couldn’t hear the surprise in Drift’s voice from across the room, but he could read every halting word on his lips: “Oh. My. God.”


	7. Reunion!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against all odds the Scavengers have reunited with Pointy! They are all overjoyed to find a long lost member of their group happy and healthy. Although Drift is excited to see them too, his happiness is tempered by doubts that they ever considered him their friend in the first place.
> 
> Also, Rodimus discovers Drift's Scavengers' nickname and he LOVES it!

Seeing the recognition shining in Drift’s startled optics was all the encouragement Misfire needed. He instantly transformed into jet mode and streaked over the crowded room. To Krok’s infinite horror, Spinister followed suit and hovered after him in helicopter mode. 

Fulcrum ducked under the table. He hugged his knees to his chest, muttering, “They going to die. Drift's going to chop them up into teeny tiny pieces. There will be nothing left.” 

Leaning back in his seat, the beginnings of a genuine smile tugged at Crankcase’s face. He folded his arms and chuckled, “I’ll be damned. That miserable spawn of a scraplet survived!” 

When the metallic clank of Misfire tackling Drift with a jet-powered hug rang sharply above the upbeat dance music, Krok cringed. Unable to watch, he slumped down, thumped his forehead on the table and covered his helm with his hands. Bracing himself for the inevitable grasp of rough hands on his shoulders, a pathetic whimper escaped his vocalizer. They finally found a place to belong and they were going to get thrown out, abandoned in a foreign universe. All because they couldn’t temper their enthusiasm with a few polite manners. 

A few awful moments passed, each tense second dragging on for eons. 

Krok peeked out from under his arms. Ultra Magnus hadn’t grabbed him and tossed him out the airlock. Megatron hadn’t stormed over to tell them off. 

Hell. No one seemed to notice him at all. 

Despite two very large purple aircraft sporting obvious Decepticon badges streaking across the room to pounce on an unsuspecting Autobot, the party rolled along full steam ahead. 

A rush of wind caused him to sit bolt upright. He’d recognize a helicopter’s downdraft anywhere. Raising a fist to yell at Spin, he froze. It wasn’t Spin at all. An angular navy helicopter darted erratically around the room pursued by an indignant white minicon with the words “Waste Disposal” proudly emblazoned on his small forearm. Krok recognized him from Swerve’s slideshow as Tailgate. 

“Whirl! Give me back my hoverboard!!” Tailgate shook his tiny fist. 

“Come and get it, Short Stack!” Whirl taunted, bobbing just out of reach while dodging light fixtures and extra tall crew members. “If you can!” 

“Cyclonus! Give me a boost, please!” Tailgate raced towards a rather frightening looking purple bot currently delivering trays of drinks to crowded tables. The festive garland draped around his horns did little to soften his severe image. 

Without uttering a word, Cyclonus balanced the drinks on one arm and quickly reached out to Tailgate with the other. He flung the minicon directly at the darting aircraft with incredible accuracy. Tailgate tackled Whirl with gusto and the two loudly crashed to the floor in a heap. Tailgate raised his hoverboard, whooping in triumph while Whirl cackled. Cyclonus smiled warmly and continued distributing a colorful array of drinks. 

Krok rubbed his optics. No one paid any mind to that disturbance either. Relief flowed over him like Spinister’s gentle propwash. Everyone else aboard the Lost Light was as equally absurd as his little troop of idiots. Somehow, they found the one single place in the entire multiverse where ridiculous was the default setting. His spark spun. They were finally home!! 

Happier than he ever believed possible, Krok hopped to his feet and dragged Fulcrum and Crankcase across the bustling party. Their progress became much easier once Grimlock moved from following them to leading the way. Anyone with even minimal brain capacity cleared the way for a huge stomping t-rex. Although some of these bots probably shared a single brain cell, at least they passed it around efficiently. 

“We can’t go over there!” Fulcrum protested, throwing his slight weight against Krok’s grip. “It’s too late for Misfire and Spin, but there’s no need for us to die! Drift's sword skills are unmatched! We don’t stand a chance!” 

“Relax.” Crankcase shoved him. “I don’t know scrap about swords, but I do know that before all this Autobot business, Pointy was a Scavenger!” 

“What?!” Fulcrum blinked. He fell silent and stopped trying to get away. Krok wasn’t sure if it was because he believed them or because he went into shock. 

After dodging their way through the dance floor, they came upon a purple and white tangle sprawled near an overturned table. Misfire hugged Drift tightly, snuggling himself against the pristine speedster, nuzzling his side while repeatedly muttering “Pointy” like a corrupted data file. Spinister kneeled next to them. He took Drift’s face gently in his hands, lightly tracing his crimson facing markings with his thumbs. 

“That tickles.” Drift chewed his lip, trying not to laugh. 

“You found a matching optic.” Spinister announced, leaning closer and tilting Drift’s head to examine his new cerulean optics. 

“Yeah.” Drift smiled, patiently enduring his unsolicited medical exam. He ruffled one hand on Misfire’s helm and the jet’s engine purred loudly. 

“Nice work. Too bad only blue was available.” Spin shrugged, finally releasing Drift. 

“I dunno.” Drift grinned, flashing a hint of fangs. “I think it suits me.” 

“I think it suits you too.” Krok agreed. “It’s good to see you, Pointy.” 

“Krok! Crankcase!” Deadlock’s optics lit up. 

“Fulcrum! Grimlock!” Misfire shouted, pointing out the two new members of their squad while still wrapped around Drift. 

“Spinister!” The helicopter proudly proclaimed. 

The rest of the Scavengers groaned. 

“What?” Spin cocked his head to one side. “Aren’t we just yelling names?” 

“Sure, Spin! Now let’s try something else!” Misfire laughed. “GROUP HUG!!” 

Before Krok could protest, Grimlock transformed into bot mode and used his massive arms to gather them all into a gigantic hug with Drift in the center. Misfire giggled. Fulcrum stiffened like he might faint at any moment. Crankcase glowered but didn’t try to escape. Krok’s thumb twitched and he vented deeply, the warmth of his team assuring him that this hug wasn’t another empty dream filled with false hope. 

“Aww! A group hug?! And no one invited me??” A fiery red speedster appeared over Drift’s shoulder. Lost in the bliss of finding a long-lost member of their team, Krok didn’t even notice Rodimus approach. What he DID notice was the golden fingers protectively curling around Drift’s pauldron and the fierce light gleaming in his clear blue optics. 

“Roddy!” Drift smiled at the speedster with such warmth it made Krok’s spark ache. He could hardly believe how much Pointy had opened up, comfortably displaying real emotions, so different from the snarling fragger Misfire yanked from the wreckage long ago. 

“No trouble here then?” Seeing Drift smile softened Rodimus’ subtle protectiveness. He instantly relaxed, draping himself languidly across the white speedster. “Everything is alright?” 

“Better than alright! You won’t believe it! I knew these bots a long time ago! We were... Friends?” Drift winced and canted his finials back. He asked so tentatively, like he didn’t want to presume a relationship that didn’t exist. He slightly pulled away from their group hug. It broke Krok’s spark. “Right?” 

“Of course, we-” Krok began, his optics welling up with tears before Misfire cut him off. He took advantage of Misfire’s distraction to rub his optics and compose himself. He never thought they’d see Pointy ever again, let alone find him so healthy and happy. 

“HELL YEAH WE’RE FRIENDS!” Misfire nuzzled his side. “Pointy and I go way back.” 

Rodimus squealed. His blue optics sparkled, and his agape mouth slowly drew into a smile. 

“Pointy??” Rodimus whispered in awe like he just discovered a precious gem long buried in the past, turning it over in his hands to admire the brilliant facets in the sun. 

“Primus, save me.” Drift muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “That’s never going away. Is it?” 

“I’m afraid not... POINTY!” Rodimus giggled and kissed the top of Drift’s helm. Drift huffed a reluctant laugh and playfully shoved him away. Their casual affection warmed Krok’s spark. Drift had come a long way from trying to strangle the people who were actively saving his life to genuinely enjoying close relationships. 

“Sorry,” Crankcase shrugged. “Pointy is his Scavengers’ name. Only other Scavengers can use it. Those are the rules.” 

Krok chuckled. They had only reunited a few minutes ago and Crankcase was already looking out for Pointy again. 

Rodimus paused, contemplating Crankcase’s words. With all the flash and fire, it would be easy to write off Rodimus as a shallow idiot. Krok got the feeling that anyone who did so would soon regret it. A clever creativity burned behind those bright blue optics, carefully hidden beneath all the charismatic charm. After all he had successfully led this ship through countless adventures and won the admiration of a devoted crew willing to follow him into completely uncharted territory. Suddenly the flashy speedster vaulted right over Drift and landed gracefully next to Krok. 

“I would like to become a Scavenger! Please let me in! PleasePleasePleasePlease!!!” Rodimus knelt down and begged. 

Misfire’s wings bounced. He finally let go of Drift to entreat Krok from his other side. “Roddy’s the only person to ever pronounce _Scavengers_ correctly! You have to let him join! Please, Krok!” 

“B- But-” Krok’s optics darted between the two pleading bots. No one ever asked to join his group before. He generally just adopted people, and most of them weren’t too thrilled about it. Even Pointy fought them fang and claw at first. Unsure of how to proceed, he decided to stall for time. “But the decision has to be unanimous and Nickel isn’t here.” 

Completely undeterred, Misfire cupped his mouth with his hands and yelled, “HEY, NICKEL!! GET YOUR AFT OVER HERE!! WE NEED YOU!!” 

Krok scanned the crowd for their intrepid green medic. As soon as he found her, his face lit up bright pink. She comfortably lounged in Roller’s lap, absentmindedly tracing his autobrand with her fingers. The huge transport laughed at something she said while slowly spinning her wheels with one gentle hand. Primus! Canoodling like that?! Right in front of everyone!? How bold! Then again, Krok supposed one didn’t become chief medical officer for the DJD by being timid. 

“NICKEL!!” Misfire whined. “COME ON!! HURRY UP!!” 

Nickel never turned her attention away from Roller’s sweet smile. She causally raised one hand and flashed her middle digit in their general direction. 

Misfire gasped. Rodimus laughed so hard he fell over into Drift’s lap. 

“KROK!” Misfire grabbed him. “Did you see what she did?! She flipped me off!!” 

“Honestly, I’m not sure why that surprises you.” Crankcase muttered. “You gotta be used to getting that type of response from pretty much anyone.” 

“HEY!” Misfire flared his wings. 

“Alright, alright.” Krok waved his hands to calm things down. He turned to Rodimus. “Tell you what... until such time as a proper vote can be conducted, I grant you status as a probationary member of the Scavengers.” 

“YES!” Rodimus pumped his fist and sparks danced along his spoiler. “Thank you! So much!!” He pulled Krok into a quick hug. Not expecting that type of behavior from his new captain, Krok’s plating locked up. Rodimus quickly released him with a smile. “You won’t regret it!” 

“But I might.” Drift sighed with a dramatic roll of his optics and a fond smile. 

“Don’t you have captain stuff to do?” Crankcase prodded. 

“Totally!” Rodimus hopped up and put his hands on his hips. “And I’m gonna do the hell out of it! I’ll let you all catch up. If anyone needs anything, I’ll be around. Just holler at me!” Rodimus winked at Drift and whispered one more, “ _Pointy!_ ” He flashed dual finger guns and bopped off, dancing to the infectious beat of Doja Cat’s ‘Boss Bitch.’ ♪ 

“I like him!” Misfire folded his arms, leaning back against Drift. 

“Of course, you do,” Crankcase huffed. “He’s flashy, loud, has a minimal attention span, and always gets what he wants. You two are probably separated-at-forging spark brothers.” 

Misfire stuck out his tongue at Crankcase. 

“Thanks for saying those nice things to Rodimus.” Drift leaned against Misfire and the jet purred. “Since I defected to the Autobots, we’ve always had each other’s backs. I supported him when everyone else underestimated him and he trusted me when no one else would. Other people have given me a hard time about my past, and he wanted to make sure that things were okay between us.” 

“Aww! That’s so sweet.” Misfire cooed. “Now I REALLY like him!” 

“I guess...” Drift’s plating pulled in tight. “I truly am happy to see you but... I wasn’t sure if you considered me... you know... your friend.” 

“Why the hell not?” Misfire’s wings twitched. 

“I tried to kill you…” Drift winced, hunching his shoulders in shame. “Several times.” 

“And yet you never once succeeded.” Crankcase shook his head. “Makes me wonder about your fabled reputation as a big bad murder-bot.” 

“If I had my guns, I would have.” Drift canted his finials back and turned away. 

“And if I had the Matrix, I’d be Spinimus Prime!” Spinister proclaimed. 

The rest of the Scavengers stared at him. 

“I’m just saying!” Spin held up his hands. “ _IF_ is a big word.” 

“Doctor Chopper's got a point!” Misfire nodded sagely. 

“I agree.” Krok concurred. Sometimes Spinister's guileless honesty yielded philosophical gems. “When you start putting IF ahead of all your thoughts, anything could be true. It’s hard enough dealing with reality as it exists without worrying about all the possibilities of paths not taken.” 

“We’re on a spaceship. They don’t take paths.” Spin observed. 

“Yeah.” Drift smiled. “I guess you're right. Thanks.” 

Spin hummed in approval. 

“Since we’ve established that we're all friends here…” Fulcrum tentatively interrupted, still watching Drift with more than a little concern. “Is it okay if we call you Pointy?” 

Krok nodded at his consideration. Nicknames could be fun but since Drift chose a new name for himself, he might have quite a different opinion. 

“Sure, you can call me Pointy. Or Drift. Please do not use the other name that I called myself at that time though. I’m trying to put that part of my life behind me.” Drift smiled but Krok caught a flash of fangs. He may not hide behind a violent façade anymore, but that didn’t mean the ferocity was completely gone. “I have a question for you too. Misfire said your name is Fulcrum, but... I don’t think we’ve ever met.” 

“Oh!” Fulcrum’s golden optics flared and his plating twitched. He gripped the edge of the table as if to keep himself from fleeing. “No. I- uh- I guess you could say I’m a new recruit. I joined, or rather they found me, in a botched attempt to harvest my fuel pump. Grimlock and Nickel joined after I did. I wish I could say I heard a lot about you, but-” 

“I’m sorry.” Krok cut him off. “We should have said something, but when someone we rescued left, it was easier to not talk about them. I lost so much to the war, I couldn’t bear the constant reminders.” 

“It’s okay. Unfortunately, I understand...” Drift offered a sad smile. 

Krok knew Drift quietly carried many complicated feelings when they rescued him long ago. Although he didn’t hide everything behind a flurry of gnashing fangs anymore, Krok still sensed Drift’s guarded nature concealed more than he showed. 

Drift perked up like he suddenly noticed something was missing. He ran his optics over their small group and then cast his glance around the room. “Where’s Flywheels?” 

The Scavengers froze. 

“When you first dragged me kicking and screaming from the battlefield, he prayed for me. At the time I didn’t appreciate his gesture and thought it was pointless. Since converting to Spectralism, I’ve come to understand his prayers as an act of faith and compassion. I’d love the chance to thank him.” 

Krok dropped his optics to the floor. Despite the jubilant celebration of the surrounding crowd, heavy silence descended on them. Misfire fiddled with his fingers while Fulcrum slouched down guiltily. Grimlock transformed back into dino mode and hung his huge saurian head, keening a low whimper. 

“Flywheels...” Krok sighed. Goodbyes were hard enough without verbally explaining them. As much as he hated to cast a pall over their happy reunion, Drift deserved a truthful answer. His thumb twitched. “Primus rest his spark. We lost poor Flywheels some time ago.” 

“Oh...” Drift’s finials drooped. 

“We didn’t _lose_ Flywheels.” Spinister cocked his head to one side. “The DJD murdered him.” 

“SPIN!” Crankcase shoved him. 

“What?!” Spin glared at the triggercon. “It’s the truth. Don’t you remember Tesarus grinding him into powder? It was terrible! He didn’t leave any salvageable spare parts.” 

“Primus!” Drift froze. His optics glistened. “I’m sorry! I am so sorry!” 

“What are you sorry for?” Spin asked. “You didn’t kill him.” 

“I might as well have.” He choked back a sob. Tears streamed down Drift’s cheeks, shining on his red facial markings. He clenched his fists. “When I defected, I didn’t consider how my actions could affect anyone who helped me. What if you got on the List because you saved my life? What if-?” 

“Whoa! Pump the brakes, Pointy! Don’t start that _if_ stuff again!” Crankcase cut him off before Drift could slide any further down his self-imposed shame spiral. He jabbed a cobalt finger at the autobrand on Drift’s chest. “I hope this thing isn’t giving you some kind of complex about being responsible for every bad thing that ever happened. Because you’re not. Not that the DJD actually needed a reason to kill people, but we are all extremely capable of getting added to the List by ourselves.” 

“Yeah!” Misfire elbowed him. “Take Pinhead here. Fulcrum got on the List because his chin was simply too heroic. I mean look at it! It doesn’t fit with the rest of his cowardly frame.” Fulcrum narrowed his optics and glared at the mischievous jet. 

“But-” 

“But nothing. It’s not your fault.” Crankcase pronounced with great finality. Unlike Misfire’s constant jabbering, Crankcase didn’t talk a lot but when he did, everyone listened. 

“Well said.” Krok smiled. That settles it. Somewhere along the line, Crankcase had decided that Drift is his favorite. Ever since they scraped up a very angry bundle of spare parts years ago, he has gone out of his way to look out for him. Maybe Drift’s initial hostility reminded him of himself. 

Drift scrubbed his tear-stained face with the back of his palm. “Thank you.” He placed his other hand over Crankcase’s. “That really means a lot to me.” 

“Whatever.” Crankcase brushed off Drift’s hand. “It’s the truth and you should know it.” 

“There’s a Spectralist tradition that I would like to fulfill for Flywheels. When a- a friend dies, you say a short prayer and drink a shot of engex. I didn’t know him long, but... Do you- I mean- Would you like to-?” Drift’s plating twitched. 

“We would be honored to do this ritual with you.” Krok gently responded to Drift’s awkward fumbling. 

“Thanks.” Drift vented in relief. Sadness shone in his optics but also something brighter. Something a little closer to mischief. “I have the perfect engex to use.” 

Drift rummaged around in his subspace and finally produced a very familiar vessel. The ornate half-filled bottle showed more scuffs and cracks that he remembered, but there was no mistaking the fancy shape. As he proudly thunked it down on the table the viscous engex slowly sloshed down the sides of the glass. 

Crankcase snorted, trying very hard not to laugh. Never one to shy away from honest emotional displays, Misfire burst into laughter. Spinister narrowed his optics and stared down the bottle like encountering an old enemy. Krok shook his head, in awe that Drift kept this horrible engex with him throughout all the long years. Then again, carrying it around was infinitely preferable to drinking it. 

“I know my history. That looks like an ancient bottle of triple filtered engex distilled for Nova Prime before the departure of Ark-1. It must be worth a fortune!” Fulcrum stared in disbelief. “Where did you find such a treasure?” 

Krok struggled to maintain his composure, but Misfire’s infectious laughter got under his plating. When Drift started giggling, all hope was lost. Krok gave in and laughed harder than he had in ages.


	8. Goodbyes and New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scavengers drink a toast of terrible engex to Flywheels memory. After a bit of catching up, they discover that Drift has a conjunx now. Of course everyone, especially Misfire, begs to meet him!

Once they had all regained enough composure to be at least moderately respectful, Drift recited a portion of the Psalter of Primus. Despite conducting a solemn prayer vigil amid a raucous party, Krok found it strangely touching. Drift’s earnest sincerity warmed his spark. After the brief litany, they all raised their shot glasses filled with the last remaining drops of Flywheel’s horrific scavenged engex. 

“To Flywheels. May his memory be eternal.” Drift raised his glass, tears shimmering in his optics. 

“You flare-” Misfire began. 

“You flicker-” Crankcase continued. 

“You fade-” Spinister added. 

“And all your tomorrows become yesterdays.” Fulcrum and Krok finished. 

Grimlock reared his t-rex head back and roared at full volume. Scrambled by the dinobot’s roar, the party music faltered. Like a stone was thrown into a pond, wave of silence rippled out from their gathering, until someone kicked the jukebox to reset it and the music resumed thumping. 

The Scavengers smiled to each other and knocked back their shots in unison. Expect for Spinister who was still involved in an intense staring contest with the empty bottle. Slamming their empty glasses down on the table, they all started coughing. 

“Sweet Solus Prime!” Crankcase gagged. “Somehow it got even worse!” 

“Wait?! WORSE?!” Fulcrum stammered. “You mean you drank this before and willingly took another shot.” 

Unable to form words as the engex burned through his intake, Krok nodded. 

“I can’t feel my nose.” Fulcrum slurred his words, running his fingers across his face like he never touched it before. 

Misfire giggled, casually throwing an arm around Drift’s shoulders. 

Krok’s optics watered. Although he wanted to attribute it to the overwhelming emotions swelling his spark, the engex was so terrible. And yet, sharing a horrible drink looted from a corpse many years ago after a sincere prayer service held during a festive celebration was the perfect send-off for Flywheels. The incongruous mix made for a felicitous farewell. He’s probably looking down from the Allspark and laughing at them right now. 

“When I said you owed us a drink, this is _not_ what I had in mind!” Crankcase sputtered. 

“I can’t believe you kept that scrap!” Misfire hiccupped and a tiny flame curled out of his mouth. 

“Me neither,” Drift wheezed, voice sounding a little raw. He turned the empty bottle over in his hands, snapping Spin out of his reverie. “It probably sounds strange, but it helped remind me that things could be different. You trusted and protected each other. After you rescued me, I started to realize that maybe murder wasn’t the best answer to everything. I never thought I’d ever seen you all again, but I never forgot you.” 

“Aww!” Misfire cooed. “I always knew under those claws and fangs, you were a big ol' softy! Just like Grumpybox over there!” 

“Who?” Drift’s finials perked up. 

“Don’t. Start.” Crankcase growled. 

“Too late.” Fulcrum muttered. He leaned heavily on the table, his golden optics only half-lit, propping his head up with one hand. 

Never one to pass up an opportunity to tell a story, Misfire launched into a detailed history of Crankcase’s relationship with Cons4eva. 

Krok thought about stopping the enthusiastic jet from regaling Drift with Crankcase’s adventure in internet dating, but no one seemed to mind. Although he could be overwhelming at times, Misfire could talk about finding an empty energon cube and make it entertaining as hell. Drift was completely enraptured by Misfire’s expressive storytelling, laughing at every imitated voice and pantomimed action. Surprisingly, Crankcase let him go. He simply leaned back and contently tapped away at his data pad, a slight blush glowing on his bronze cheeks. Krok rolled his optics. He was probably live-texting Cons4eva about the whole affair. 

When Misfire got to the part where Crankcase met Cons4eva the first time on earth, he projected his holoavatar on to the table for effect. A small, extremely pink humanoid figure dressed head to toe in purple materialized in their midst. Its strange face featured one large violet eye centered in the middle of the broad forehead and plump lips curled into a smug grin. The shimmery figure mimicked Misfire’s every motion. 

“AHHH!” Fulcrum yelped and ducked behind Grimlock. “Turn that thing off!!” 

“What’s the matter, Pinhead?” Misfire blew a kiss at Fulcrum. His holoavatar mimed the same motion in a grotesquely comical imitation. “Can’t handle this lush specimen?” 

“NO!” Fulcrum cowered behind the amused dinobot. “You know organics creep me out! Especially humans!!” 

“Human??” Drift raised a brow. He incredulously inspected Misfire’s hologram. “Are you sure?” 

“Totally!” Misfire beamed. “I designed it myself! I made the most handsomest human of all time! Check out that symmetry! Humans love that scrap! When I showed it to MP3, a human soldier that we met, he fainted due to my extreme hotness! Spin thought he died!” 

“I bet.” Drift bit his lip trying not to laugh. His red facial designs curled as his smile broadened. “It’s definitely unlike any human that I’ve ever seen before.” 

“I know right!!” Misfire flared his wings with pride and mercifully deactivated the holoavatar. His weird humanoid doppelganger vanished in a puff of shimmering light. 

“Finally!” Fulcrum vented in relief, retaking his seat. 

“Anyways, where was I...?” Misfire pondered, tapping his chin. “Oh yeah! Crankcase meeting Cons4eva! Wait a minute...” 

Misfire’s face lit up. Krok could practically see a ridiculous idea forming in his brain. He braced himself for the impending flurry of stupidity. 

“Hey, Crankcase! What’s your holoavatar? I’ve never seen it. Is it a dire wraith? So you and Cons4eva can make sweet tentacle love??” Misfire giggled and ran his hands over his own frame, miming a boisterous make out session complete with loud kissing noises. 

“Ugh!” Fulcrum gagged. “Thanks for the image!!” 

“First of all, SHUT UP!” Crankcase kicked Misfire under the table. Drift laughed. 

“OW! HEY!” 

“Secondly, don’t talk about my boyfriend like that!” 

“I just asked!” The jet pouted. 

“Well, it’s not any of your business.” Crankcase grumbled, setting down his datapad. “Even if it was, I wouldn’t tell you. Cons4eva and I love each other regardless of our differences. I wouldn’t change anything about him, and he accepts me as I am, broken helm and all. If anything, his love has helped me become a better person.” 

“Aww! That so sweet!” Drift gushed. He propped his head up with his elbows on the table and stared at Crankcase with a soft dreamy smile. “I’m so happy for you! I wondered why your aura shone so brightly.” 

“Umm... my what?” Crankcase blushed fiercely and rubbed the back of his helm. “Thanks?” 

“I mean it.” Drift continued. “Finding someone who believes in you even when you don’t believe in yourself... someone who you support no matter what... it’s truly special.” 

Krok glanced over Drift’s shoulder and noticed Ratchet standing nonchalantly at the bar, fidgeting with an empty glass. When they made optic contact, the medic quickly turned away. Krok’s spark spun warmly as the pieces fit together. 

“Sounds like you’re speaking from personal experience.” Krok nudged him with his elbow. 

“Ha ha!” Drift’s optics sparkled. He sheepishly rubbed the back of his helm. “You got me there. Turns out, I have a conjunx.” 

Krok smiled while the rest of the Scavengers gasped as one. 

“WHAT?!” Misfire grabbed Drift by the shoulders and shook him. “YOU HAVE A CONJUNX?! AND DIDN’T TELL US?!” 

“Can’t imagine why.” Crankcase chuckled as Misfire continued vigorously shaking Drift. 

“Who is it? Can we meet him? It’s Rodimus, isn’t it? It’s gotta be Rodimus!! He’s amazing!” 

“I love Rodimus dearly,” Drift giggled, struggling to extricate himself from Misfire’s iron grasp. If he couldn’t get the jet to drop him all those years ago by snarling threats, then he didn’t have a chance at escape now. “But he is my amica, not my conjunx.” 

“Primus!! You have an amica AND a conjunx!!” Misfire gasped. He hugged Drift so hard, Krok worried he might leave purple paint streaks on his pristine white armor. “I’M SO PROUD OF YOU!!” 

“Thank you!” To Misfire’s surprise, Drift hugged him with equal fervor. “I’m so proud of me too!!” 

“Well, are you going to introduce us?” Krok spread out his open hands while Misfire and Drift exuberantly hopped in circles, hugging each other and squealing. 

Drift smiled as they spun to a stop. He gestured towards Krok’s empty hands. “You’re not the only one that decided it was time to make peace with your past.” 

“You looked up the doctor?” Krok’s optics flared. He knew it! 

“Sort of? He actually looked me up.” Drift’s cheeks glowed soft pink, setting off his crimson designs. “We started spending more time together, but some bad stuff happened, and I left. The same negative energy that plagued our earlier interactions returned. I figured he didn’t need me around, dragging him down so I ran away to wander the galaxy alone. But he refused to give up on me and came to find me, leaving everything he ever knew behind. After tireless searching, he found me.” 

“That’s so romantic!” Fulcrum swooned. 

“It really was!” Drift agreed with a dreamy sigh. “I never thought he’d do anything so reckless and dangerous. Just for me.” 

“I bet he showed up, swept you off your feet, and said ‘Get in the shuttle, Loser! We’re going home!’” Misfire snickered. 

“Actually... that’s shockingly accurate.” Drift blinked in surprise. 

“SO? Who is he? Come on! The suspense is killing me!!” Misfire practically vibrated in excitement. 

Drift gestured over his shoulder to Ratchet. Determined to give Drift his space, the medic distractedly chatted with Swerve, pausing to surreptitiously glance in their direction every few seconds. 

“Oh, sweet Primus!” Misfire squealed. “The hot doctor is your conjunx?! Hey, Fulcrum-” 

"Shut up, idiot!” Fulcrum snapped, clamping his hand over the jet’s mouth. “Are you trying to get me killed?!” 

Drift raised his brow. Fulcrum quailed, allowing Misfire to wriggle free. 

“As I was saying...” Misfire flicked his wings. “Fulcrum was all like ‘Ooo! Ratchet is totally buff and super hot! Look at those big strong arms! He could carry me anywhere he wanted’.” Misfire giggled through a terrible impression of the K-class soldier. 

Fulcrum blushed fiercely, burying his face in his hands. 

“Relax! I happen to agree with you!” Drift elbowed him. His sly smile revealed the tips of his fangs. He canted his finials back and leaned in to whisper conspiratorially. “I’ve been all across the universe and, for the record, I’ve never felt safer anywhere than in Ratchet’s big strong arms.” 

Fulcrum fainted. 

“Wanna meet him?” Drift laughed while Grimlock nuzzled Fulcrum to revive him. 

“HELL YES!” Misfire hopped to his feet. 

“Hey, Ratty!” Drift shouted to the medic over the thumping bass. “Come here! I want you to meet some old friends of mine!” 

Hearing Drift finally call them ‘friends’ without any hesitation or uncertainty warmed all of Krok’s circuits. 

The medic nodded to Swerve and turned their way. Ratchet hooked his thumbs in his utility belt and dodged his way through the dance floor, making his way towards them with quiet confidence. His smile for Drift radiated such genuine warmth that Krok felt himself falling for the medic too. Just a little. The distinctive whir of transformation cog snapped him back to reality. 

“CONGRATULATIONS!” Misfire shouted, transforming into jet mode and streaking right at Ratchet. “I’m SO HAPPY FOR YOU AND POINTY!” 

Krok lunged to grab Misfire’s rudder but fell short. Ratchet’s blue optics widened as the jet switched back into bot mode midair and tackled him in a supersonic hug. They tumbled backwards, the crowd automatically parting before them. When they finally rolled to a stop, Misfire curled around Ratchet and purred loudly. 

“Idiot.” Crankcase grumbled. He grabbed his datapad and hustled to rescue Drift’s conjunx from a surprise attack of unsolicited cuddling. 

“I better go check for injuries!” Spin flew after him. 

Grimlock scooped up a recovering Fulcrum in his jaws and brought him over to meet Ratchet as well. 

FWEE-FWEEE!! A wolf whistle sounded from across the room. Krok turned to see Nickel contentedly nestled in Roller’s lap. She winked at Drift and flashed two green thumbs up. The white speedster blushed and laughed. Krok shook his head. None of them knew how to act with even the slightest modicum of dignity. 

“We better get over there before they traumatize your conjunx any further.” Krok sighed. 

“I wouldn’t worry about Ratchet.” Drift gestured towards his conjunx who suddenly found himself the center of attention for a group of exuberant Decepticons. He swatted at Spin’s attempt to give him a check-up while Misfire continued hugging him. “He can handle himself.” 

Krok laughed as Drift rose to his feet. He turned to work his way across the crowded room when a firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. 

“Hey... Krok?” Drift chewed his bottom lip. 

“Yeah?” Krok halted in confusion. What could be troubling the speedster now? 

“I never got the chance to properly thank you...” Drift raised his stunning blue optics. He held Krok in his gaze like he willed him to understand the depth of his gratitude. “For everything that you did for me.” 

“Aww, Pointy.” Krok melted. His optics watered. He never needed to be thanked, but now with Drift shifting sheepishly before him, a wave of emotions threatened to wash him away. An image of Pointy when they first found him flashed through his brain: A snarling mass of spare parts desperately clinging to Krok’s hand as Spin prepared to reattach his severed limbs. 

“You saved my life. I know I made it difficult and I’m sorry. Back then, I responded to everything with violence. I lashed out... savagely and... repeatedly. You could have let me die, but you didn’t. And I am eternally grateful.” 

“We only wanted to help someone in need.” Krok struggled to maintain composure. “You don’t have to thank us.” 

“I’m serious.” Drift continued. “Your kindness made all of this possible.” 

“Come on.” Krok huffed in self-depreciation, tears welling up in his optics. “I’m sure you would have survived to find Ratchet eventually. No offense, but you are really stubborn.” 

“Maybe.” Drift smiled wistfully. “But I don’t mean only me and Ratchet. I mean ALL of this. None of us would be here if you didn’t help me that day. Not me, not Rodimus, probably not even you. The Lost Light is MY ship. I bought it for Rodimus when we decided to explore the universe together.” 

“What...?” Krok whispered, stunned as Drift’s words sunk into his processor. The Lost Light?! The huge quantum ship that they all now called home?! Belonged to Pointy?! Primus! Crankcase is going to be so jealous. 

“You rescued me that day in more ways than one. Although unlikely, I might have physically survived on my own, but I had fallen off the path Primus laid for me. Your trust, your kindness, your camaraderie, helped me grow into the person that I am today. It might have taken me a while to get here, but you set me on the right path. I don’t know where I would have wound up without you.” 

“Pointy... I...” Krok sobbed. Although he had rescued plenty of damaged soldiers over the years, no one ever spoke their feelings so eloquently to him before. He knew all the Scavengers cared about each other, but none of them were very good at expressing their emotions. 

“Thank you. So very much.” Drift smiled, tears shining in his optics now as well. He flung his arms around Krok and hugged him fiercely. Krok held the speedster and chuckled. Everything Pointy did, from carrying too many weapons to saying ‘thank you’, he did with undeniable dramatic flair. 

“ARGH!!” Ratchet’s shouts rose above the noisy party. Misfire snuggled him undeterred while Crankcase worked to pry off the enthusiastic jet. “Get off me you blasted rust barnacle!” 

“We better get over there,” Krok chuckled, wiping at his face with the back of his palm, “Before we have to rescue Misfire.” 

“I don’t know,” Drift grinned. “I’m starting to think Misfire is some kind of mystical force of nature, powered by sheer good will and protected by Primus. His aura is incredible. The color patterns actually remind me of Rodimus’. Crankcase might be on to something about them being related.” 

“Primus, help us.” Krok muttered. 

Drift laughed. 

“Come on!” Drift grasped Krok’s hand and led him through the crowd. “I would love for you to meet Ratchet. I think you’ll really like him. I know I do!” 

Krok let Drift lead him through the boisterous crowd. Despite being jostled around and having to squeeze past other partiers, Drift’s warm grasp never wavered. Krok smiled, gripping his hand a little tighter before someone tugged him away into a spontaneous dance routine. His spark spun warmly as he realized that this time, neither one of them would have to let go.


	9. One Big Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ratchet meets the in-laws!!

When they finally made their way across the party, Krok and Drift found Ratchet serving as the reluctant center of attention to a band of raucous Scavengers. Chaos whirled around them. So... just another day in the life. Krok groaned and rolled his optics. 

“Drift! It’s about fragging time!” Ratchet huffed. “What the hell is all this scrap?!” 

Ratchet used one hand to futilely push Misfire’s face away while Spinister held the other for an impromptu medical exam, carefully flexing each finger. Crankcase grabbed Misfire by the waist and threw all his weight into trying to pry the jet off the irate medic. Grimlock spit out a confused Fulcrum at Ratchet’s feet. When the revived k-class soldier realized where he was, he flushed fiercely and buried his face in his hands. Grimlock rumbled with laughter. 

“Your hands are very impressive!” Spin gushed, clearly intrigued. “Did you do the transplant yourself?” 

“Yeah...” Ratchet answered distractedly, still struggling with Misfire. 

“Woooow!” Spin uttered in awe. 

“Primus save me!” Krok muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Why doesn’t anyone know how to act civilized? 

“All this, or rather, all these,” Drift grinned, showing the tips of his fangs as he threw is arms wide, “Are the Scavengers!” 

“The Scavengers?” Ratchet whispered, bright blue optics flaring. His limbs went limp, allowing Misfire to glom onto his side unhindered. The jet nuzzled Ratchet’s windshield. Crankcase’s grip slipped and he crashed backwards, landing hard on his aft. Spinister continued his medical exam unhindered, manipulating Ratchet’s wrist and humming in approval. 

“Yep!” Drift proudly puffed out his chest. 

Krok quirked a brow. Drift told his conjunx about them? 

“The ones who saved your life? When Star Saber cut you into several pieces with his plasma sword and left you for dead?” Ratchet gaped at the ragtag group surrounding him. He absent-mindedly laid a hand on Misfire’s helm and the jet purred so loudly it rattled his frame. 

“Ooooh! Plasma sword...” Spinister paused his fascination with Ratchet’s hands. “That explains why the wounds were so clean.” 

“Exactly!” Ratchet turned to face the helicopter surgeon. “The intense heat instantly cauterizes the wounds.” 

“That explains why all Pointy’s severed arms and legs were in such good shape too. They were all neatly cut off with no blunt force trauma damage at all.” Spin nodded. 

“Makes sense. How did you deal with all the internal circuit damage?” Ratchet asked, easily slipping into a professional conversation with the Scavengers’ unconventional surgeon. 

“No one has ever asked me a real doctor question before!” Spin exclaimed, finally releasing Ratchet to gesture with his hands. “All of the relays were scorched shut so I had to reopen each one individually. We didn’t have enough spare parts to replace them all. It took a ton of time, but I didn’t have anything else to do. I took my torch and-” 

“Whoa!! Hit the brakes doc-bots!” Crankcase groaned. “I really don’t want to hear all the gory details of reattaching Pointy’s limbs. There’s a reason I never watch you operate.” 

“Spoiler alert: It’s because he’s secretly squeamish!” Misfire giggled. 

“Shut it, Misfire!” 

“Pointy?” A sly smile curled across Ratchet’s face. “I don’t recall that detail from when you told me this story.” 

“Pointy! You told your conjunx about us?! That’s so sweet!!” Misfire cooed. 

Drift grinned sheepishly, cheeks barely glowing the softest pink. 

“It’s his Scavengers’ name.” Fulcrum piped up. “Only other Scavengers can call him by it.” 

“Ratchet can use it if he wants.” Spin shrugged. “He’s a Scavenger too. Obviously.” 

“What?!” Fulcrum yelped. “How?!” 

“He’s conjunx with one. That makes him a Scavenger. It’s simple math.” Spin twitched his rotors like he was explaining the most obvious detail ever invented. “Right, Krok?” 

Krok stared at them. Since when are there all these rules about who is or isn’t a Scavenger? 

“Sounds right to me.” Crankcase folded his arms. Once again, sticking up for Pointy. 

“Well then,” Ratchet leaned towards Drift with a fond teasing smile. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends? _Pointy!_ ” He purred the nickname in a smooth sonorous rumble. 

Drift’s soft blush brightened significantly, the intense pink glow highlighting his crimson facial markings. His vent fans whirled to life. Fulcrum nearly fainted again. 

“Ooo! Introductions!” Oblivious to Ratchet’s raw magnetism that had even Krok struggling to not melt on the spot, Misfire leapt up and begged Krok. “Please let me do them! Please! Please! Please!” 

“Ask Drift. Ratchet’s his conjunx. Maybe he wants to do it.” 

“Can I? Pointy? Pleeeeeease!!” Misfire rounded on Drift 

“S-sure...” Drift stammered, still dreamily staring at Ratchet with a lopsided grin plastered on his face. The medic wagged his brow and winked. 

“But do the abbreviated ones!” Crankcase chided. “Pointy still owes us a decent drink. One that’s not ten million years old and turned into discarded rocket fuel.” 

“Yeah, yeah!” Misfire waved him off. He clapped his hands together and pointed at Crankcase. “You just volunteered to go first!” 

“Whatever.” Crankcase huffed. 

“The grumpy triggercon with deep blue paintwork the color of a bruised spark is Crankcase. If he seems miserable, it’s because he IS miserable. Don’t let the disagreeable attitude fool you though. He’s a secret softy and got totally lucky by finding the best boyfriend, Cons4eva, our favorite dire wraith.” 

Crankcase folded his arms and glared at Misfire. 

“You’ve already had a professional conversation with our resident surgeon/accidental philosopher.” Misfire pointed to Spinister. “No one sees the world quite like Spinister.” 

“How could they?” Spin cocked his head to one side. “No one else has my optics.” 

“Right!” Misfire snickered. “Moving on! Krok here is the stoic yet sensitive strategist that rescued the lot of us and kept us marginally safe throughout most of the war. Hell! We even fought the DJD together and survived with only one casualty! Honestly, I don’t know where we’d be without him. Actually... I do know. And the answer is: probably dead.” 

“Misfire... Thank you...” Krok’s optics teared up. 

“That’s right! I am Misfire!” He pointed both thumbs at his own chest. “Which, as the name implies, means it’s best for everyone’s health and safety if I don’t interact with high powered firearms!” 

Fulcrum shrank down, clinging to the futile hope that Misfire might forget his introduction. 

“The jittery K-class soldier with a crush on you as big as his chin is Fulcrum! Unfortunately, he joined after Pointy left us to rejoin the war.” 

“ _Misfire!_ ” Fulcrum hissed, shrinking behind Grimlock. _“Shut up!”_

“Since he’s an Autobot, you might already know Grimlock.” Misfire pointed up to the gigantic t-rex towering over them. Misfire paused, rubbing his chin as he pondered to himself, “Is it offensive to assume all Autobots know each other??” 

“Hi-ya, Ratch!” The dinobot rumbled. He curled his huge head close to his chest so he could reach it with his tiny arms to flash an awkward salute. “It’s good to see you again!” 

“Likewise!” Ratchet returned the salute with a smile. 

Satisfied that Grimlock and Ratchet did indeed know each other, Misfire shrugged and enthusiastically continued with his abbreviated introductions. 

“Other there, canoodling with tall, dark, and handsome, is Doctor DJD herself.” Misfire gestured over his shoulder to the diminutive green bot snuggled in Roller’s lap. “HEY NICKEL!” He yelled. “Say ‘HI’ to Pointy’s conjunx!” 

Nickel looked up with a wicked grin. She flipped off Misfire again, using both hands this time. Then she smiled sweetly at Ratchet and cheerfully waved. 

“I like her!” Ratchet laughed and waved back. 

“Last, but not least, is our newest member: Rodimus!” Misfire pointed to the flashy red speedster movin’ and groovin’ on the dance floor. “Again, he’s an Autobot, so you probably know him.” 

Somehow sensing someone talking about him, Rodimus froze and turned their way. Drift laughed and waved him off. Seeing Drift smile satisfied his concern. He winked and resumed dancing with Thunderclash. 

“Wait one fragging astrosecond... Rodimus?!” Ratchet narrowed his optics. “How did _Rodimus_ become a Scavenger?!” 

“It’s kind of a long story.” Drift rubbed the back of his helm. 

“It’s really not.” Spin shrugged. “He asked to join and Krok said ‘yes’.” 

“Sounds like Rodimus.” Ratchet rolled his optics. 

“If Misfire’s done with his introductions, now it’s my turn.” Drift stood behind Ratchet, still seated on the floor, and placed his hands on his shoulders. “Everyone! I want you all to meet my conjunx, Ratchet!” He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the medic. His face curled into a mischievous grin, showing the tips of his fangs. He nuzzled Ratchet’s helm. “Someone I love very much despite his many, many obvious flaws.” 

“What a glowing introduction.” Ratchet grumbled and rolled his optics but a soft blush lit his cheeks. He reached up and flicked Drift’s finial. 

“I thought it was nice.” Spin chimed in. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Ratchet huffed while Drift giggled. “What’s really nice is meeting all of you. I owe you all a great debt of gratitude.” 

“Debt?” Spin cocked his head to one side. “What for? Did you lose a bet or something?” 

“No. It means ‘thank you’.” Ratchet smiled with patient kindness. “Thank you for looking after someone I love very much. Especially because I know what a tremendous pain in the aft he can be.” 

“Hey!!” Drift nudged him. “That’s not true!” 

“Sorry, Pointy...” Crankcase rubbed a few old scars on his neck cables. “I think I have to agree with Ratchet on this one.” 

“Oops.” Drift canted his finials back and winced. “Sorry about that.” 

Misfire burst into laughter. 

“You don’t have to thank us, but you are more than welcome.” Krok held out his hand to Ratchet. When the medic shook it, grip firm and warm, Krok smiled. “I think I speak for everyone when I say, we are all very happy to meet you.” 

“AWW YEAH!!” Misfire whooped. “Today is the best!! We found one old member, Pointy, that’s you! And gained two new members, Pointy’s amica and his conjunx!” 

“Sounds like a real cause for celebration.” Crankcase tapped his chin. “If only someone owed us a proper drink... like something that was actually good and not old garbage scraped off a battlefield...” 

“What exactly have you been drinking?” Ratchet narrowed his optics. 

“N- nothing!” Fulcrum stammered. 

“Nothing good.” Crankcase grumbled. 

“Alright, alright already!” Drift laughed. “I’ll work my way through the crowd to the bar and get the best concoctions that Swerve has to offer!” 

“Hold on, Pointy!” Misfire grabbed Drift’s arm. “Crowds are no problem for a dinobot! Hey, Grim! Do you mind?” 

“Not at all!” The T-rex flashed a jagged saurian grin. He lowered his massive neck. “All aboard!” 

Misfire clumsily clamored up onto the dinobot’s back. Once he was situated, he reached out to Drift. 

“Come on! Let’s make a run to the bar in style!” 

“Really?! I get to ride a dinosaur?!” Drift’s crystal blue optics sparkled. 

“You bet!” Grimlock rumbled. “But then you’ll owe me a drink too. I want something ridiculously sweet and fruity! I’ll have you know that I’m a bit of sangria connoisseur and I have expensive taste!” 

“Damn, Grim!” Misfire exclaimed. 

“Not a problem! I’ll get you whatever you want!” Drift grinned, gracefully vaulting up onto Grimlock’s back behind Misfire. He brandished one of his many swords. “Onward! To drinks and glory!” 

Krok shook his head as the dinobot stomped off with two giggling idiots on his back. What could possibly go wrong?? 

Apparently pleased he was finally getting the drink that Drift owed him, Crankcase righted the table that they knocked over and gathered a few chairs. 

A chorus of alarmed yelps rose from the general direction of the bar. Krok busied himself helping Crankcase so he didn’t have to look. Ratchet grabbed a few more chairs and set them around the table, leaving a large open space for Grimlock. Krok appreciated his calm assistance. 

CRASH! BANG! ROOOOAR!!! 

Krok drew his palm down his face. Ratchet laughed. 

“Relax!” He laid a warm hand on Krok’s shoulder. “If a few dinobot dents is all I have to deal with after this party, I’d consider it a raging success.” 

“Things really get that ridiculous around here?” Krok tentatively looked up. 

“Ridiculous doesn’t begin to cover it.” Ratchet smiled and gave his shoulder a squeeze. Krok’s tension bled away. No wonder Pointy fell for the medic all those years ago. 

“No?” Krok asked more hopefully than he intended. 

“Pfft! You have no idea.” Ratchet chuckled. “Absurd, bizarre, bonkers, ludicrous. Minimus probably has an alphabetized list of words to describe the Lost Light, entirely made up of synonyms for crazy. But as long as Drift is here, the only words I can think of is: Home.” 

_Home_

The word resounded in Krok’s brain. Even louder than the ruckus that Drift, Misfire, and Grimlock were causing across the room. Louder than the upbeat music and happy laughter. Louder than all his doubts, worries, and fears. 

_Home_

He thought about something that Drift told him. The Lost Light belonged to him. All of this is possible because they saved a wounded solider from certain death. One small act of kindness yielded a better future for so many people. They took in Pointy, repaired his damage, and sent him on his way. Krok should have known that one day, he would return the favor with exceeding extravagance, taking them all in and giving them the one thing that Krok desperately wanted. Pointy always did have a flair for the dramatic. 

Krok smiled. “Home... sounds good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! What a wild ride!! ☆*･゜ﾟ･*\\(^O^)/*･゜ﾟ･*☆
> 
> What started out as a plot thread developed in a discord chat has become my longest fic to date! It turned out awesome and I really love it!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, gave kudos and wrote comments! Knowing that other people were enjoying this fic too helped inspire me to continue writing when I got stuck a few times! I really appreciate it!!

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> I appreciate your kudos and love reading your comments!!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at:[lush-specimen.tumblr.com](lush-specimen.tumblr.com)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Piccina](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25714039) by [Cao_the_dreamer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cao_the_dreamer/pseuds/Cao_the_dreamer)




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